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Granted, I'm no longer living in the kind of place that could, and would, be easily broken into, but old habits and learned-the-hard-way life lessons are difficult to unlearn.
The city's bright night lights flicker in front of me as I slowly strip out of my black bodycon cocktail dress. The simple lace detail around the hem tickles as I slip it down my body and step out of it. The dress is only one of my many little black dresses, or my "uniforms" as my girls call them. I take one last glance out the window before I pull the curtains closed and make my way to the bathroom.
The bathwater is shockingly hot when I slide my body into the tub, causing me to hiss as my muscles seize before slowly relaxing, the hard warm water jets kneading the soreness from my body. Once the water has cooled enough, I massage a handful of shampoo into my hair, and then, holding my breath, sink under the water, swirling my long black locks around my head. I’m still as amused by the foaming sound of the lathering suds dissolving into the water as I was when I was little.
Only a lack of oxygen prompts me to finally emerge, my hair slick against my head, following the curve of my neck and all the way down almost to the small of my back.
I lean back and close my eyes.
There's nothing but the sound of the occasional dripping of the tap and my breath in the room, just the way I like it at the end of the day. If I listen hard enough, though, I can probably still hear the echoes of the music blaring in the club, the traffic on the car ride home, and the sound of street food vendors selling their wares.
Silence is what I'm craving.
As if on cue, a shrill ring echoes around the tiled bathroom, and I pretend for just a second that I'm going to ignore the call. It's a little gift to myself, a moment of hope that I'm only minutes from bedtime and rest. But then reality hits, and I reach for the Bluetooth earpiece on the edge of the tub and slip it into my ear, absentmindedly playing with the bubbles in the water.
"Yeah."
It’s noisy in the background with the music thumping, and there’s some fumbling before a voice finally speaks. "Kiara? Where are you?"
"Home."
"It's not even 2 a.m." The voice sounds surprised.
I shrug. "I thought I'd have an early night."
"Lazy cow." It’s a joke and we both know it.
"What do you want?" I ask, already reaching for the towel by the tub.
"I have someone here you might be able to help. She really needs it, Kiara."
I swallow the sigh and push myself to my feet. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
"How was your week?" my Dad asks at lunch about ten hours later as he reaches across the table to top up my wine. He’s just finished telling me a story about a funny run-in with a former business partner’s wife at the country club. My father, still incredibly handsome while newly retired and newly widowed, is what the women at the Country Club call "prime real estate." As always, location is key, and the view from the seat beside Dennis Yin and his billions is pretty good.
I reluctantly returned to Hong Kong from New York City before my mother passed away a little over a year ago and decided to move out on my own instead of staying at the family home. It caused a bit of a ruckus in the family after a series of heated arguments between my father, my brother, and I that looked like they’d never be resolved. But my father finally agreed to not hire bodyguards to shadow me everywhere if I promised to have a weekly lunch with him. Something about being able to see with his own eyes that I was okay. Sometimes we would go for a walk, or try a new restaurant, but most of the time I’d come and see him at Amber, the family’s cognac and cigar bar, my father’s passion project.
"My week was okay," I answer, as I pick up a piece of chicken from my platter and pop it into my mouth. Maybe if I’m chewing, he won’t ask me many more questions.
The answer I do give him is far from the answer he wants, too short and uninformative as always, but he also knows it's the only answer he's getting. We've done this weekly dance enough times now for him to know that I consider my business mine alone and something I keep close to my heart.
As for his business, well, frankly, I don't give a damn about it. Something he seems to conveniently forget every time we meet.
"Kiara, my girl..."
My hand snaps into the air, stopping him before he can continue. "No, Dad. We're not doing this today. Please. I'm too tired, I didn't sleep much last night, and I'm not really in the mood to rehash the same conversation we have every week."
The sigh is short and accompanied by a drop of his shoulders, a sign of concession that doesn’t come easily to a man considered a giant in his industry.
But the boardroom is one thing, conversations with his daughter are another.
I give him a smile and pat his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze out of sheer gratitude.
"Anyway, Dad, Nathan has everything under control," I say. "The last thing you need is the directors interrupting your retirement by constantly reporting to you that your two children are squabbling in the boardroom."
He grips my hand; his aging hands feel softer and smaller and less sturdy than when he used to lay them on my head every night before I went to bed. "I can't protect you forever, my girl," he says.
"I love you for always watching out for me, but I’ll always be okay, Dad. Or have you forgotten how many times you had to come down to my school after I got into a fight?"
