Chapter Text
Beatrice Young. That’s who she was. If you asked her, she would say she was a writer by trade and by interest, but her parents would not be keen for her to introduce herself in that way, so let’s start again, shall we?
Beatrice Young. Master's in Political Science with a focus on Political Economy. First Class Honours. Bachelor’s in Politics with a specialisation in Global Communication. First Class Honours. Daughter of multi-millionaire British diplomats Michelle Young and Kai Young. Perfect daughter. Possibly.
And if you ask her, she would tell you her job has barely anything to do with her degrees, or maybe just the fact that being a writer does involve her using her Global Communications minor by…communicating her stories to the world. She does not write for the government, nor does she write to them, but fiction is what her hand flies across the keyboard for. It must count in some regard, or at least it does in her head.
Shamefully, she may want to add, but that’s not her voice, because she loves her job, she loves writing her stories, and she loves the fact that they can’t do anything about it because of their perfect illusion of happiness. Allegedly.
And while Michelle Young had nothing against Beatrice “writing her life away”, as she would put it, Kai Young probably had, has, less care about it. Allegedly.
And as Beatrice stands in front of her countertop meticulously folding jiǎo zi to prepare for the arrival of her beloved parents, she would tell you that what she just said was all truth. Plausibly.
Because the illusion of the, her perfect family is that her mother does indeed care that she is a fiction writer, in the sense that if she did not assure the older h- woman that it would be just a way of destressing and improving her writing skills all those years ago, she might have been kicked out onto the street, baring the fact that to a Chinese-British person of such high stature, keeping face was equally as important as making sure your daughter was to only become something high-payingly useful in society. And as for Kai Young on the other hand, he might be as absent in most physical sense of the words, but he had enough connections and dough to be as if he wasn’t.
So sure, they love that she’s a writer. A successful one, in fact, if she does so add. Love that she’s wasting the degrees she’s spent basically the majority of her life studying for. Love that her head is so “stuck in the clouds” that she cannot see there’s no future or money in writing fiction, as if she’s not already with a million dollars in book sales and hundreds of thousands more in fans.
Her only gripe, she thinks, as she carefully pleats the edge of another dumpling, is possibly the fact that she will never be enough, even if she had followed in their footsteps. Their love, if she could even have called it that, always comes with conditions. Unspoken, but heavy as stone.
Her success is tolerated because it doesn’t- has not tarnished the family name.
Her independence is celebrated (somewhat) only because she still hasn’t touched her inheritance money, yet as her mother would so helpfully remind her, because of course even now she thinks she would fail and fall into a pool of money for some reason.
Her passions indulged just as long as they don’t interfere with the Young family’s image of perpetual excellence. At least, it makes her parents seem like they’re finally letting go in some capacity, which paints them in a positive public light, to show that they’re letting her do what she likes instead of forcing her into a mold.
She will very well keep her mouth shut with the fact that they very much did try, and she decided running away into a small rural town to work part-time and write her book was the best course of action those years ago.
So perfect daughter? Not that much. But here she was anyway. Still, they did always remind her of her shortcomings. Of course.
And so, as Beatrice folds another dumpling, sealing its edges with precision, the way her mother taught her all those years ago in their glossy, sunlit family kitchen back in London, the irony does not escape her. How this ritual, steeped into tradition, the bridge between who she was supposed to be and who she had become. It’s her way of keeping face too, she supposes. Every crease and fold, a silent testament to her ability to walk the tightrope of their expectations while quietly thriving on her own terms.
The doorbell rings, and her heart skips even after this many years. It’s not fear or dread exactly, but something close. Or maybe even now she buries herself like a tortoise in its shell. A coward. Maybe as yé ye would have told her as he tucked her into bed with dried tears on her face, maybe she was just being a filial child. Perfect daughter. Maybe.
So as she opens the door, there they are, looking the same as the last time they interacted. Michelle Young, poised and immaculate, her gaze already sweeping over Beatrice like a scanner. And Kai Young, standing a step behind, as if he were just another distinguished guest and not her father.
But today, there’s more.
Two men in dark suits linger just beyond the gate, positioned with an air of nonchalance that feels too calculated to be real. Another stands near the car, a sleek black thing parked a little too perfectly by the curb. And a woman - sharp-eyed and stiff-backed - waits near the driver’s seat, her gaze flicking up just briefly enough to acknowledge Beatrice before returning to her quiet watchfulness.
She swallows, but knows better than to ask until her parents bring it up.
At least, she should wait till after dinner if they don’t.
“Beatrice,” Her mother says simply as if that is more than enough affection from a mother to her daughter. She’s used to it. “You put on weight, I told you, sitting on your bum all day tapping on your laptop will do your weight no good.”
Beatrice merely opens the door bigger in welcome, rocking slightly on the soles of her feet. “Yes, mother.”
“All you know how to say is “yes mother this, yes mother that” but I’m not sure if you’re even actually listening and doing what I tell you to. You know Beatrice, everything I say is for your own good blah blah blah blah” Beatrice ignores her droning, knows her mother won’t ask any questions, just wants to make her point and end up somewhere else. She knows her father will eventually get tired of what his wife is talking about, if he's even listening today, and will end the conversation by telling Beatrice just to “listen to your mother”. She's played this song and dance a thousand times over her 28 years of life, and she's sure nothing will change in the next 28 years either.
He barely even looks at her, and even if she's used to it, there’s still a slither of hurt settling in her bones.
As she locks the door behind her, washing her hands and steaming the dumplings as her mother nags about how she should have planned her timing better, she takes a small breath, and tells herself dinner would be fine. She’ll play the part, they’ll say their veiled barbs and backhanded compliments, and by the end of the night, they’d leave and all would be fine, and they’ll continue pretending she is their dreamy perfect daughter.
But as Beatrice watches her mother cast a critical eye over her living room and her father silently admires the art adorning her walls, she can’t help but think of the one story she’s always been too afraid to write - the one where the perfect illusion finally cracks. A small part of her wonders what would happen, but maybe in all its essence, she already knows. The fallout would be swift and devastating. Mother would summon every ounce of sharp tongued diplomacy to decry Beatrice’s “selfishness” and “ingratitude,” while father would abdonish her in silence, cold, steely disapproval misting like dry ice and water.
The Young family’s pristine image would remain intact, of course, because that was their speciality: extinguishing the flames of the rowdy public while privately funneling the offender to smithereens.
And yet, as she sets the dumplings into the bamboo steamer, listening to her mother critique the colour of her cushions on her sofa as if she just changed it, Beatrice can’t shake the itch to break it. Or at least, break it more than she already has, not like they know. If they did, she wouldn’t be here right now in her kitchen, relatively at ease steaming dumplings on her stove. She wants to write her story - not the polished, palatable version they might approve of, but the messy, unvarnished truth of who she really is; who they will never let her be.
It wouldn’t be an exposé; she isn’t cruel. But it would be honest. For once, it would be hers, untethered from their expectations or their need for control.
She turns back to the stove, the hot steam rising, tingling against her skin like a free facial, only worse because there’s an agitating grating voice nagging in her ear about something she probably couldn’t care less about. Dinner will be fine, she thinks, but as she watches the dumplings puff up and glisten, she wonders what it would feel like to finally stop putting herself into their dumpling mold, to stop folding herself into perfect amenable shapes, easy to stomach, easy to chew. She supposes she will never know.
“Beatrice! Have you cooked the rice yet? Where is your rice? This house of yours is so messy, I can’t believe you stay in this hellhole of a place, I mean-”
Beatrice merely sighs as she unties the packaging of the Chinese wheat noodles.
Play your part.
Keep your head down.
Cook the food.
Tonight. Tonight will be fine.
Beatrice knows so.
䷇
She’s setting the table, three sets of cutlery laid out around her rectangular table. Six wooden chopsticks, and three post-dust chopstick holders beneath.
They don’t need to know she only dug the holders out for this occasion, washing them softly between her fingers like rotating marbles in her hands, but only worse because they’re not perfectly round and shaped like a fish, and if they drop into the sink, well bless her ears then.
They don’t need to know she usually sits at her coffee table to eat while she writes, Maximus beside or behind her as she types away on her laptop, some dish next to her as she takes a bite every time she reaches an impasse.
And they definitely don’t need to know Maximus eats better food than her most nights - that while she eats a quick chicken stir fry with broccoli and rice worth less than 5 dollars, Max eats a careful blend of foods like pork and beef mince, kibble, berries and goat’s milk.
Speaking of the angel, he finally trots out of her room, shaking the sleep from his body as he rubs against her in greeting. She bends down, ruffling his perfectly silky smooth fur and burying her head in his neck. It’s been a long day. He’s more than happy to bask in that attention, standing perfectly still and merely panting as Beatrice holds him.
Of course, the illusion of peace must break eventually when there’s a woman obsessed with perfection standing just a few feet away from her.
“Beatrice! The fire is on for the noodles and you’re not watching it? And what’s this, you’re hugging this foul creature when preparing food? Are you intending to poison us?”
Beatrice lets out a minute sigh, and the look Maximus gives her is pitying. Or as pitying as a dog’s face can get, but he’s a smart boy, and dogs are quite expressive - especially when there’s golden mixed into him. The look is so full of pity she’s half-expecting him to sigh in solidarity. Or at least roll his eyes if he could.
She stands to her full height, walking towards the kitchen again to wash her hands, “Yes mother,”
“There you go again with this yes mother thing, on God’s name Beatrice, one day I will-” And then Beatrice drowns out her droning again, with the crisp, cool water running over her hands, and the airy soap that’s dastardly overpriced, but she got it as a gift, so she might as well use it. Maximus isn’t even that dirty, she always washes his paws after they go out for their morning walks, and he has showers bimonthly (once every two months, in case people were to be confused and wonder if it occurs twice a month - there’s no need, he’s a German Shepherd and Golden Retriever mix afterall), plus he gets brushed every day.
She flings the water into the sink, which she knows infuriates her, but it’s the small victories through the lack of drying her hands on the sink towel just 3 paces down, because she knows she’s watching. She smiles at Maximus, who’s sitting patiently waiting for his dinner, a silent comfort despite the chaos and mess she’s making of her house and brain.
She removes the steamer baskets from the pot, turning off the fire as she places the two on the table. Ginger slices, already pre-sliced in preparation, and zhèn jiāng xiāng cù poured gently over the 3 saucers and brought to the table.
She pours the noodles into the bowls, portioning it out with a 3:4:2 ratio, because her dad always did eat more, and her mom always wanted to maintain her slim figure. Will she get shouted at for eating that much noodles? Probably.
But another small victory nonetheless.
Afterall, isn’t her life about the small victories against them, since she can’t even shake them off her back?
Depressing thought, for a depressing dinner.
She plates the noodles, picking the jiàng yóu, má yóu, háo yóu and hú jiāo fěn from her arsenal of sauces. She serves with some xiǎo bái cài, drizzling some lǎo gàn mā ciāng là cuì. She knows, ironically, as a pure Chinese, her mother cannot handle spice. She glimpses behind her, glancing at her mother who types away frantically on her phone. She sprinkles on an equal amount to every bowl anyway.
She watches the oil glisten over the noodles, picturing the moment her mother takes her first spicy bite. A small victory, but she’ll take what she can get.
Except - mother is sharp. Too sharp. She’ll see the oil shimmering on the surface before mixing, and she’ll demand a plain portion.
Beatrice, of course, has already thought of that.
She keeps her face impassive as she picks up the chopsticks and casually tosses the noodles in the sauces, coating them evenly, ensuring not a single strand is left untouched. It glistens wonderfully under her kitchen light. A light red stares back at her, mixed in with the oils and sauces. She tries not to smile.
Beatrice brings the piping hot bowls onto the table, the soft dik dak of the porcelain on wood. “I hope you don’t mind, I premixed the bowls beforehand. There was this Chinese chef that told me letting the sauces stay on top of the hot noodles will soak the top and make it too salty, so I took the liberty of doing so beforehand.” It’s not a blatant lie, but a few seconds between her kitchen counter and dining table won’t make much of a difference. Still.
“I’m just going to prepare Maximus’ dinner, both of you can start without me,” Beatrice fakes a small smile, turning her back on the impending blood bath.
“Beatrice,”
Beatrice takes a scoop of Maximus’ kibble. “Hm?”
“This noodles has chili in it,”
She shrugs, letting the kibble clank noisily into his metal bowl, “Well yes, lǎo gàn mā ciāng là cuì is delicious.” She decides she’ll let him eat his wet food later, she needs to see her reaction first. “Is that an issue?”
Her mother peers down at the noodles as she turns back, picking the dog bowl off from the countertop. She’s certain if not for this problem, her mother would be complaining about her preparing Maximus’ food on the same counter she did their food. Beatrice bends down, scratching behind Maximus’ ear as she brings the bowl to the ground.
“You know I can’t take spice, Beatrice.”
She drops it the last few centimeters. Some spills over the sides.
“Oh I’m so sorry, I completely forgot!” Her voice is all exaggerated remorse, widening her eyes just enough to sell it, the feigned regret in her tone. “I really would have kept a plain portion for you, but I made just enough for three bowls.” She turns, faking a helpless gesture at the now-empty pot, the ladle resting idly inside.
Her mother’s gaze flickers towards the kitchen before she herself stands up from her chair, the wooden legs scratching against the floor from her speed. She clicks her tongue once, but that’s all she allows herself. Even in anger, she is poised. She stirs the starchy water herself, checks the cupboards herself, checks every single one, then she’s hunched over the counter top, as if that would miraculously make some uncooked noodles appear.
She storms back into her seat. Her eye is twitching. Her eyebrows are furrowed.
All her other noodles are long tucked away in Maximus’ toy box, well out of sight.
Of course she planned for this beforehand.
She’s still her mother’s daughter after all. A Young through and through.
She watches, with no small amount of satisfaction, as her mother hesitates - debating whether it’s worth the effort to complain further or to just eat the damn thing (oops). Beatrice tilts her head, lips barely twitching. “I can get you some bread if it helps?”
A sharp inhale. A barely-contained grimace. Chopsticks poised with reluctant acceptance.
Beatrice hides her smirk behind Maximus’ fur as she scratches under his chin.
Another small victory. But she’ll take it.
“Just. Just come and eat your dinner.”
Beatrice doesn’t wash her hands.
Michelle doesn’t comment.
And when she sits back down, slurping the noodles up as quietly as possible, she hears a low sucked in breath - Beatrice doesn’t even have to look up to know.
This time, the noodles hide her smile.
䷅
Maximus is next to her now, lying on the ground and tucked against her shins. He knows now is no play time like usual, no cuddle time. It’s war time. Survival time. He knows that Beatrice will let him out to the backyard to play later. For now, he waits, silent, tail sweeping against the floor as they eat. Mother’s bowl has long been discarded, she’s given up on trying to win that battle, she knows she can’t this time.
The dumplings are almost gone, 5 left, to be more exact. She knows how many each one of them ate, she guesses there’ll be one left as per usual, but her mother would get it this time. He might be a shite father, but at least in some regards, he cares for his wife, and Beatrice will basically be forced to oblige.
Not like she’s bothered, she has the ingredients for at least another 20 more dumplings she can make on her own time. Still, there’s a small part of her that wants to win every possible battle she can, no matter how small. In the grand scheme of things, Michelle won’t remember, but she will. Is it unhealthy? Yes, very much so, but when you’ve been raised on fight or flight for your whole life, when your family relations are more like a war roleplay that has lasted for hundreds of years than a family, well. If you can’t win the war (yet), you win each battle until you can.
“Beatrice,”
Now this, this knocks her off her guard a little. Even Maximus raises his head off the ground.
“Yes, father.”
He’s not even looking at her, his phone open as he scrolls, but at least he’s giving her some time of day.
He glances up from his phone to make sure she’s focused, before he continues with whatever he was doing.
“Your mother and I, we decided to get you some bodyguards.”
Her eyes narrow, her head twitching slightly as looks at her mother. She’s focused on her dumplings. Flattering.
“What?”
“Your father’s political career has taken off a bit more in recent terms, I’m sure you know. His advisor has said that it’s best we increase personal security, you know how underhanded some of these people are.” Michelle is dabbing at her commissures with a napkin as she speaks. She left 3 dumplings.
Her confusion must be palpable because even her father looks up from his phone.
“This is for your safety, Beatrice.”
Beatrice lets out a sharp breath, fingers clenching around her chopsticks before she sets them down with a deliberate clink. It misses the holder.
“For my safety?” She echoes, voice deceptively light. “You think I need bodyguards?”
Her father doesn’t look up from his phone again, as if this conversation has long been settled. “Yes.”
Beatrice tries not to scoff. She’s not sure if she succeeded.
“I’m an author. A fiction writer. You can’t seriously think I need that level of security.”
“You don’t understand how dangerous these people can be,” Her mother interjects, tightening her bottle cap. Beatrice doesn’t know when she took a sip. “Your father’s position puts all of us at risk.”
“I’ve been fine all these years!” Beatrice snaps back.
“Not for long,” Kai Young murmurs, finally setting his phone down. He studies her with that same distant, unreadable expression he’s always had. Leave that for the political court, dad. “Beatrice, there is no discussion here. This has already been decided.”
She laughs, sharp and incredulous, “You mean you decided. Without asking me, because God forbid I have an opinion about my own life.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Dramatic?” Her voice rises, heat bubbling to the surface like water hitting scalding oil. “I don’t want bodyguards. I don’t need people shadowing my every move like I’m some helpless child. I write books for God’s sake - not politics! Mystery, intrigue, solving crimes - I don’t need bodyguards for that.” Call her her mother's daughter, because she pushes the chair back the same way Michelle did earlier, startling Maximus as he whimpers beside her.
“Your father’s visibility makes you vulnerable,” her mother says, exasperated. “People won’t come after us, Beatrice - they’ll come after you. This is no paranoia," her mother scoffs, "You don't even know what's happening behind closed doors - you can’t possibly understand the threats that exist,” her mother says coldly, setting her bottle down.
“No, you don’t understand,” Beatrice fires back. “People aren’t that bad! You act like I’m in imminent danger just by existing, but maybe that’s because you both spend all your time wrapped up in your politics, thinking everyone’s got some hidden agenda.”
Beatrice shoves a finger towards them. "Or maybe it's because you have something to hide. All those late-night meetings, those calls you never take in front of me-" Her hands go up in fury, "If you think it's getting dangerous, maybe it's not too late to stop." She thinks her voice cracks, but she tries to not let it show.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Beatrice.” Her mother’s lips press into a thin line.
“And how about your own bodyguards?” Beatrice shouts, anger flaring as her mother ignores her words. “Why am I the only one that-”
“We have our own security, Beatrice.” Her father cuts her off. “But unlike us, you go out without a second thought. You don’t have the same… precautions in place.” He utters. "Just because you don't see them, doesn't mean they don't exist."
“The people outside-”
"Beatrice, you're being naive. We only want the best for you."
“Oh, I’m being naive? Because I don’t want my every move watched? Because I’d rather live my life than be trapped under your paranoia?” Her hands are shaking now, her breath coming short and quick. “You don’t get to control me.”
“We are protecting you,” her mother hisses, voice suddenly sharp as a blade.
“No, you’re controlling me. Again. Like you always do because I’m some experiment for you to perf-”
“ENOUGH.”
Kai’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. Beatrice flinches. So does her mother.
The room falls deathly silent.
Kai breathes out, controlled but heavy, his usual nonchalant demeanor nowhere in sight.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice low and authoritative, his eyes fixing on Beatrice with a firm, unyielding stare. “I expect you there.” A pause. Then, quieter, calmer, like the eye of the storm just passed. “Your mother will send you the details later.”
Beatrice feels the walls closing in.
The decision is final.
Her fate, once again, decided for her.
She sinks back into her chair.