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Three years passed quickly.

I founded my own investment firm. The people I'd once looked up at were colleagues now, or competitors. We were on level ground.

Including James Whitmore.

At an industry gala, I ran into him again.

He had a different woman on his arm — young, blonde, laughing at something he'd said. He switched to English with me, but with a conspicuously careful accent, as if he'd been practicing.

"Stella. It's been a while."

The Chinese-speaking crowd in finance had grown considerably in recent years. Half the room was taking evening Mandarin classes.

"It has," I said, and raised my glass across the space between us.

He drifted closer, with that particular energy of someone who has something they want to unload. "I have to say, Stella — I had no idea your childhood was so..."

He searched for the word.

"Rough," he settled on.

I waited.

"You know, in this country, abandoning a child is a criminal offense. Especially someone as accomplished as you've become." He shook his head with something that looked almost sincere. "If I'd known earlier—"

He caught my expression and trailed off.

"Anyway. Never mind all that." He smiled, smoothly pivoting. "You should come by the house sometime. Sofia asks about you often. She'd love to have a sister like you."

We both, without comment, avoided mentioning Vivian.

As if she were someone who had ceased to exist.