Chloe Gong

From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of These Violent Delights and Our Violent Ends comes the “equal parts intoxicating and dazzling” (Roshani Chokshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Gilded Wolves) first book in a captivating new duology following an ill-matched pair of spies posing as a married couple to investigate a series of brutal murders in 1930s Shanghai. It’s 1931 in Shanghai, and the stage is set for a new decade of intrigue. Four years ago, Rosalind Lang was brought back from the brink of death, but the strange experiment that saved her also stopped her from sleeping and aging—and allows her to heal from any wound. In short, Rosalind cannot die. Now, desperate for redemption for her traitorous past, she uses her abilities as an assassin for her country. Code name: Fortune. But when the Japanese Imperial Army begins its invasion march, Rosalind’s mission pivots. A series of murders is causing unrest in Shanghai, and the Japanese are under suspicion. Rosalind’s new orders are to infiltrate foreign society and identify the culprits behind the terror plot before more of her people are killed. To reduce suspicion, however, she must pose as the wife of another Nationalist spy, Orion Hong, and though Rosalind finds Orion’s cavalier attitude and playboy demeanor infuriating, she is willing to work with him for the greater good. But Orion has an agenda of his own, and Rosalind has secrets that she wants to keep buried. As they both attempt to unravel the conspiracy, the two spies soon find that there are deeper and more horrifying layers to this mystery than they ever imagined.

Foul Lady Fortune

julia

“You can’t ask me not to love you by keeping me at arm’s length. I’ll love you anyway.”

fc ♡

FRENCH 😩😩🫶🫶❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Keira 💫

The first scientist gives the subject one more affectionate pat. “You are my greatest achievement, and greater still is yet to come. But until then…”

The subject cannot keep their eyes open anymore. Weakness turns every limb heavy, each thought in their mind fleeting like ships sighted in fog. The subject wants to say something, scream something, but nothing will form. Then the scientist leans in to whisper into their ear, landing the final strike and piercing the fog as cleanly as a blade:

“Haven’t you heard of me? The Nationalists need to do a better job of their propaganda.”

Now it was dawning on the merchant. She could see it in his eyes, in that expression of disbelief to be witnessing something so unnatural before him, connecting it with the stories that had started spreading some few years ago.

“Ah.” Rosalind finally straightened upright, her lungs recovering. “That’s a misnomer. It’s just Fortune. Catch.” In a smooth motion, she retrieved one of her gloves to clasp the lip of the vase and swipe it off the table. The bodyguard caught the vase quickly when she tossed it at him, likely preparing for some attack, but the vase only landed in his palms softly, nestled like a wild animal made of porcelain.

Fortune, the rumors whispered, was the code name for a Nationalist agent. Not just any agent: an immortal assassin who could not be killed despite multiple attempts, who didn’t sleep or age, who stalked the night for her targets and appeared in the guise of a mere girl. Depending on how much flourish was added to the stories, she was specifically a menace for the surviving White Flowers, going after them with a coin in hand. If it landed on heads, they were killed immediately. If it landed on tails, they were given the chance to run, but no target had yet managed to escape her.

“Abominable creature,” Mr. Kuznetsov hissed. He lunged back to give her a wide berth between them—or at least he tried.

Rosalind flipped to the last page, then froze, her hand stilled over the print. So the universe had decided to play a cruel joke. It had peered into her thoughts and chosen to show her cousin’s smiling inked face, her portrait side by side with Roma Montagov’s, rendered in delicate line art.

Commemorating the Star-Crossed Lovers of Shanghai

Rosalind closed the newspaper gently. She breathed in. Breathed out.

If they had lived, they would be twenty-four years old now. But the city’s rival darlings were dead. All that was left were the city’s street rats and failures, the city’s sins and awfulness—personified in a girl named Rosalind. Out of all the people who had been allowed to remain, why had it been her?

“You don’t need my Chinese name,” Rosalind replied. “It’s reserved for my enemies before I eradicate them from mortal existence. And the elderly.”

Orion lifted a dark eyebrow. The move was practiced, accompanied by his humoring expression and a single lock of hair that had come loose from his combed style with an assumed casualness.

He tilted his head back, letting the lock of hair shift away from his eyes. “I could be.”

Rosalind didn’t bother with any further retort. It had been no less than a minute since she’d met Orion Hong, and he already watched her like he was planning a conquest ten steps in advance. 

“What did you mean,” Rosalind tried again, “when you said Communists were caught by living alone?”

Dao Feng waved his hand at her like she was slow for not understanding. “Your cover stories must make sense, after all. If Hong Liwen is entering the workforce under a different name, he cannot remain living in his father’s house.”

Now Orion was catching on to Rosalind’s confusion. “So… I shall be living alone?”

“No, no. As I just said, that is too suspicious.”

“Then…” Rosalind exchanged a glance with Orion. He was equally puzzled. “Where is he living?”

The room fell silent. Rosalind thought she had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, did I skip that part? You’re getting married. For this mission, the two of you will be abandoning your present code names and becoming one combined operative. Welcome to the covert branch, High Tide.”

Rosalind choked on her spit. Orion’s expression brightened, practically manic as he hopped to his feet. “Oh? You should have opened with that.”

“That is surely unnecessary,” Rosalind wheezed.

TENSION. HELL YES 🙌🫠🫠🥹🥹❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥😩😩🫶🫶🤭🤭🫣🫣✨✨

She opened the door and stepped inside, mouth thinned into a line. Immediately, Orion hopped to his feet again, ready to speak.

His mouth snapped closed with an audible sound. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

“It was a pre-warning. I’m trying to think.”

Orion crossed his arms. “You’re very grumpy. I expected my wife to be less grumpy.”

“I”—Rosalind barely managed through her gritted teeth—“am not your wife.”

“Not yet. Do you think they’ll make us a fake certificate, too? I’ll get you a ring. What do you like? Silver? Gold?”

“It’s okay that you’re grumpy. I think it’s very cute—”

Rosalind suddenly picked up the dagger that Dao Feng had thrown at her, taking aim. She had thought it would make a mighty fine threat, that Orion might flinch when she raised her arm, but he only grinned, straightening his posture. Their eyes met. His had a wild sort of glee in them, as if he were saying, Please, go on. I dare you.

I SHIP 🤭🤭 SISTERS WITH BROTHERS?? Hell yes. 

“What happened?” she demanded. A patch of angry scratches started at his collar and continued down into his shirt.

“A small scuffle,” Oliver replied. He was always vague out of habit, even when there was no information at risk, and it infuriated Celia to no end. She pulled her hand away, narrowing her eyes; Oliver stared back evenly. Eventually, though Oliver would never admit it outright, Celia’s intimidation won out, and he turned his palms over wordlessly to show her his knuckles too, also bearing scratches.

“Are you trying to end up in the hospital?” Her voice had risen an octave.

Oliver’s mouth twitched. “I only need you to tend to my wounds, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I’ll give you some wounds to tend to.”

“Ouch, harsh.” He scrunched his palms away. “Please don’t worry about it. I had a small encounter on the streets—that is all.”

“Touch my desk, and I’ll kill you,” she said darkly. “You know what? Move anything, and I’ll kill you. If you so much as breathe near what you should not be fiddling with, I’ll—”

Rosalind turned her letter over. The ink had dried enough that she could hide the words without smearing her work. “Good of you to catch on so quickly.”

Orion drew a finger along her desk. A thin layer of dust parted way, forming a straight line on the wood—a barrier, cut between the two of them.

Something in Rosalind reached a breaking point, a dam on her resentment splitting right open. Did he have to make a joke out of everything? How was he possibly the Nationalists’ best spy for this mission with this behavior?

“Don’t ever forget that you are talking to another operative,” she snapped. “I will gut you alive before you even see me coming.”

Orion threw his head back with a laugh, reacting with casual grace. Rosalind was serious. There was invisible blood soaked deep into her palms—couldn’t he smell it? Each time Rosalind inspected her own fingers, it felt like there was something slick and viscous coated all the way up to her wrists. It seemed impossible that others could not sense it, that the shoulders she brushed while pushing through a crowd didn’t automatically flinch away because they felt her transferring a metallic stench over to them.

“Understood,” Orion said, a quirk still playing at his lips. He stepped back from her desk, sticking his hands into his pockets. “I must head out now. Don’t stay up on my behalf, beloved spouse.”

“When you are done with those”—Jiemin leaned over and pointed at one of the nearest cubicles, speaking in Shanghainese again—“Liza is our point of contact for distributing the files into other departments. Liza! Come meet the new girl.”

Liza popped her head up from her work, a curtain of blond curls swishing over her shoulder. She was Russian, Rosalind guessed. Perhaps newly out of school—

Rosalind froze. “Oh God.” The quiet exclamation had slipped out of its own accord, surprise rocketing down her spine so fast that she had lost control of her tongue.

The blond girl was her age now, but she had not been the last time Rosalind had seen her. Though she was taller, her cheeks wider, her brow matured, there was no doubt who Rosalind was looking upon.

Alisa Montagova, the last of the White Flowers.

And from what Rosalind had heard from Celia—Alisa Montagova, a Communist spy.

Foul Lady Fortune quotes

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