There were seven of them having brunch in the restaurant’s private room, all women, of course, all somewhere in their mid-thirties to mid-forties, all beautifully dressed and well preserved, with that sheen that only comes from lots of money.  That money was conspicuously on display, as their clothing and accessories were an array of the latest designs from P---a, C----l, D--r, and G---i, among others.  

All of them were second wives, and many of them had been junior thirds—mistresses who succeeded in ousting the first wife and climbing onto the big bed. (Handily ignoring the fact that a man who marries his mistress creates a job opening--for the next mistress.)

As they sat and chatted, the drinks flowed freely.  The food, although beautifully presented and appealing, was mostly untouched, because every calorie counted.

“—And the moment he died, right there in the hospital room, his ex-wife and his son showed up with their lawyer.  That’s when she found out the apartment was only rented.  The car was leased. All the company shares went to the first wife’s children.  He’d been living paycheck to paycheck since the divorce, so when he passed away—there was nothing left but a couple thousand in the accounts.  She was left with only her clothing and jewelry.”

Ren Minglan’s eyes gleamed as she listened to the story her friend was telling.  “Poor thing,” She sympathized, and sipped her Cosmopolitan.  She loved cocktails and hearing about the miseries of others. 

Another friend tittered.  “Well, that’s what she gets for not doing her due diligence before getting involved with him.  Minglan darling, why not share some advice on how to do it right?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” she demurred.

“Here, here!”  the assembly clapped. 

“Oh, well, all right,” Ren Minglan took another sip from her drink, and began.  “First of all, pick a widower without a son, if you can find one, and with an uncomplicated family.  Second, don’t get reckless—no rendezvous with the pool boys or other little white faces. Get yourself a good vibrator if you don’t already have one and make do with that.”

The ladies laughed.  Ren Minglan went on. 

“Third—don’t get greedy. If you have a stepchild, don’t try to grab all their inheritance. My late husband left three-quarters of his estate to me and the daughter we had together, and I’m very happy with that.  My stepdaughter Jiaying will have plenty for her university fees and enough to buy a house and even start up a small business.  As long as she has realistic expectations and lives frugally, she’ll be able to have a decent middle-class lifestyle.”  Her voice dripped gleeful condescension. 

“So, you don’t have any ambitions for Jiaying socially?  You don’t think she could make a good marriage?” one of her friends inquired.

“Her?” Ren Minglan laughed.  “Her personality is as flat as her chest.  No charisma, no conversation, bad skin—she’s the dullest person imaginable.  Good grades, though, and her features aren’t bad.   I did have hopes of the Mo boy, Mo Mufan—they had a childhood sweetheart thing going, but since he came back from America, it’s fizzled out.  No, she’ll just have to find some average salaryman or someone like that.”

Her friends laughed again.  “Mind you, the moment Jiaying turns eighteen, I’m turning her out of the house, and the moment my mother-in-law passes, I’m selling it.”

“No!” one of her friends protested.  “That beautiful lake house! How could you?”

“I hate that house,” Ren Minglan growled.  “It’s never felt like my home.  It’s her home—his first wife’s.  She chose the architect, the furniture, and put her art all over the walls.  The only room I was allowed to decorate was my daughter’s.”

“But your husband passed over a year ago,” one of her friends pointed out.

Ren Minglan shook her head.  “It doesn’t matter.  All that glass—it’s too open and so isolated. I’d much rather have a lovely apartment in a high-rise in Binjiang district.  And some day I’m going to."

"What about your mother-in-law? Does she have anything, and if so, where is she leaving it?" asked another friend.

"Her? She was an embroiderer, so mostly what she has is old rags.  Very decorative old rags, true, and she did publish a few books, but that was decades ago.  I'm sure she has a few thousand tucked away.  I know she's promised some of her work to the Silk Museum in Hangzhou--they're positively salivating to get their hands on the rags.  Whatever else she has,  I'm sure she'll split it between the two girls."  Ren Minglan swallowed the remains of her cocktail and checked her watch.  "Oh, look at the time.   Someone, find the waiter.  Brunch is on me today.”

However…

The waiter took her card and brought it back with the news that it had been declined!

Sheng Jianyu raised an eyebrow at his assistant and said, “Smashed your computer, did she?”   He was a very tall, thin man with a deep and sonorous voice. Between his height and his voice, he had a very definite aura of authority and knowledge.  He sat behind a highly polished mahogany desk and waited, his fingers steepled together and his face entirely neutral in expression.

“And also the onyx-topped console table, a framed photograph, and the two large Waterford crystal vases,” the assistant confirmed. 

“Please show Ms. Ren Minglan in. Then draw up an invoice of the replacement costs of that and anything else she damaged.  Be sure to save the video of her tantrum as well.”

“Yes, sir.” His assistant bowed his head and left him alone in his office for a moment.

One would never have thought that the woman who entered could ever be responsible for the destruction his assistant had described.  Not a hair was out of place on Ren Minglan’s head—but her eye makeup was slightly smeary at the outer corners, creasing into the crows’ feet.

“Good afternoon, Madame.  How kind of you to pay me a visit,” Sheng Jianyu greeted her politely.

“My cards,” Ren Minglan said without acknowledging what he had said. “I was at brunch with my friends, and none of my cards worked.  I called the bank and they said I had to speak to you.”

“Indeed.  Have a seat.  I dislike it when I am conversing with someone and our eyes are not on the same level.”  Sheng Jianyu gestured to the red leather chair in front of his desk.

“I was humiliated! My friends had to pay for me!” she fumed.

“Sit. Down. And be silent!” 

She did, sulkily, like a child, throwing herself into a chair with a pout.

“Now. I did not cancel your cards.  I merely told the bank that when the inevitable happened, they should refer you to my office.”

“What? What ‘inevitable?’” she asked.

“When you ran out of money.”

“Ran out of money?” she screeched.  “Isn’t the Lin family rich?   Didn’t you promise me, when my husband died, that I would have an income for life?”

“To answer your questions in order: Yes, you ran out of money.  Yes, the Lin family is rich.  You, however, are not.  Not anymore.  And you do have an income for life. However, it is not an unlimited one.”  He shot a severe look at her.  “You have been spending like a drunken sailor, as they say, for the last eighteen months.”

“I—I—,” she spluttered.

“Clothing.  Spa days.   Cosmetic surgeries.   Jewelry.   A new Land Rover with all the possible expensive options, for which you paid over one million yuan, and then immediately gave to your boyfriend.  I do commend you on having waited until after your husband’s death before finding a lover, by the way.  Cash withdrawals.  Meals out with your friends—one dinner alone, last week, to which you treated them, was nearly twenty-eight thousand yuan.  Unless you were hosting a party for two hundred, that seems to me to be excessive.

“Your husband possessed, when he died, a little more than twenty-six million yuan in liquid assets. He left you half of that and divided the other half evenly between his two daughters, Lin Jiaying and Lin Weiwei. That money represented thirty years of his life, from when he entered the work force at age twenty-two until he died at fifty-two.  You spent your half of it in the last eighteen months.  Fifteen years of his life flowed through your hands like water. Thirteen million yuan. You were only married to him for eight years.”

Ren Minglan sat there, pale as marble, in silence.  “I didn’t—it can’t have been that much.”

“I can assure you that it was.  The accountant has all the details.”

“I don’t believe you!  I couldn’t have spent all of that! You must have been embezzling!”  Ren Minglan accused.  “I’ll have you arrested and thrown in jail if you don’t release my money!”

“You are welcome to find outside accountants to come in and audit, at your own expense of course, to confirm my honesty.  You could even call the police.  In fact, I welcome you to do so.  Then I can share with them the video of you vandalizing my offices and causing a great deal of expensive damage.”  Sheng Jianyu countered.  “The Waterford crystal vases alone are more than five hundred thousand each.”

Ren Minglan stared at him for a moment in silence.   “But—but the income,” she managed.

“Ah, yes.  The income.  In addition to his liquid assets, Lin Xinghe had stocks and bonds, investments, real estate, and so forth.   You do not own them and cannot touch them—just as you cannot touch the funds left to Lin Jiaying and Lin Weiwei—but you are guaranteed the interest that accrues from half of them for the rest of your life.  At the moment, that averages around twenty thousand yuan a month.”

“Twenty thousand yuan a month!  That’s….” Ren Minglan struggled.  “What am I going to do? How can I live on that?”

“Madame—You came to the Lin family with nothing.   No, less than nothing, for you had debts.   Lin Xinghe met you when he stopped in a jewelry store to buy a present for his daughter.  You were the salesperson.  Your average monthly salary then was three thousand yuan a month and you lived in a slum. During your marriage, your monthly allowance was about fifteen thousand, plus whatever extra you could wheedle out of your husband or Elder Madame.  You did not work.

“At present, you live in a house with over a thousand square meters of floor space, complete with an in-home gym, sauna, and spa, among other amenities, on the waterfront of Lake Qiandao. You are not required to spend a renminbi on its upkeep, the utilities, or taxes, nor the salaries of the servants or even a grain of rice.  There are three family cars which you use under the same terms, and even a driver should you not care to get behind the wheel yourself.   All those expenses are paid for out of the household funds.   If you cannot make do on twenty thousand a month, I do not know what to tell you. There are people who must support entire families on much less.

“My advice to you now is to stop spending money.  If you must entertain your friends, do so at home.  You can plan whatever menus you like within the monthly budget for food.  Go through your closets and cull your wardrobe.  Sell whatever you no longer wear.   There is quite a market for second-hand designer goods, I understand.  Stop having unnecessary surgical procedures and find a boyfriend whose affection does not depend on gifts.”  

“But—expenses.  For the girls.  Yes, for Jiaying and Weiwei!  Surely there must be funds for that.”

Sheng Jianyu regarded her with the distaste of someone who has found a maggot in his rice bowl.

 “Apart from new clothes for the Lunar New Year, when was the last time you spent a yuan specifically on either of them?  Elder Madame Lin managed the household, including living expenses for the girls, until her second stroke.  Since then, Miss Lin Jiaying took over that duty and has been doing very well. Seventeen is not too young to learn how to budget and manage. 

“Nevertheless, I am prepared to add half the income from Lin Weiwei’s funds and securities to yours every month, on the condition that you do not pester Lin Jiaying into giving you more money or buying things for you, for access to her cards or the household budget—as you used to do Elder Madame Lin before Lin Xinghe passed.” Sheng Jianyu gave Ren Minglan a level stare.

“What? Has that little b*tch been telling you things about me?”  she demanded.

“No.  It was Elder Madame Lin who told me, before her strokes.  Lin Jiaying has never said anything about you to me, either good or bad.   I am very fond of her, you know.  I have watched her grow up.  Elder Madame Lin is my second cousin, and so I see her descendants as family.  Your daughter Weiwei is no kin to me, but as Jiaying loves her, I spare her some family feeling too.  Even if it were not so, my duties as the Lin Family’s wealth management agent would still require me to look out for their best interests.  Whatever your private feelings about your stepdaughter, I suggest that you not give Lin Jiaying any cause to complain of you.”

“I won’t,” Ren Minglan vowed, but her eyes were hot and angry as her mouth said the words.