Crazy Rich Asians (Crazy Rich Asians, #1) by Kevin Kwan Read Online (FREE)
Read Crazy Rich Asians (Crazy Rich Asians, #1) by Kevin Kwan online free here.
1 This is what happens when you get a face-lift in Argentina.
2 M.C. is the abbreviation for Mom Chao, the title reserved for the grandsons of King Rama V of Thailand (1853 – 1910) and is the most junior class still considered royalty. In English this rank is translated as “His Serene Highness.” Like many members of the extended Thai royal family, they spend part of the year in Switzerland. Better golf, better traffic.
3 M.R. is the abbreviation for Mom Rajawongse, the title assumed by children of male Mom Chao. In English this rank is translated as “The Honorable.” The three sons of Catherine Young and Prince Taksin all married Thai women of noble birth. Since these wives’ names are all impressively long, unpronounceable to non-Thai speakers, and rather irrelevant to this story, they have been left out.
4 Plotting to run away to Manila with his dear nanny so he can compete in the World Karaoke Championships.
5 Her notorious gossip spreads faster than the BBC.
6 But has fathered at least one child out of wedlock with a Malay woman (who now lives in a luxury condo in Beverly Hills).
7 Hong Kong soap opera actress rumored to be the girl in the red wig from Crouch My Tiger, Hide Your Dragon II.
8 But unfortunately takes after her mother’s side of the family—the Chows.
9 Sold his Singapore properties in the 1980s for many millions and moved to Hawaii but constantly laments that he would be a billionaire today “if he’d just waited a few more years.”
Prologue: The Cousins
Nicholas Young slumped into the nearest seat in the hotel lobby, drained from the sixteen-hour flight from Singapore, the train ride from Heathrow Airport, and trudging through the rain-soaked streets. His cousin Astrid Leong shivered stoically next to him, all because her mother, Felicity, his dai gu cheh—or “big aunt” in Cantonese—said it was a sin to take a taxi nine blocks and forced everyone to walk all the way from Piccadilly Tube Station.
Anyone else happening upon the scene might have noticed an unusually composed eight-year-old boy and an ethereal wisp of a girl sitting quietly in a corner, but all Reginald Ormsby saw from his desk overlooking the lobby were two little Chinese children staining the damask settee with their sodden coats. And it only got worse from there. Three Chinese women stood nearby, frantically blotting themselves dry with tissues, while a teenager slid wildly across the lobby, his sneakers leaving muddy tracks on the black-and-white checker board marble.
Ormsby rushed downstairs from the mezzanine, knowing he could more efficiently dispatch these foreigners than his front-desk clerks. “Good evening, I am the general manager. Can I help you?” he said slowly, over-enunciating every word.
“Yes, good evening, we have a reservation,” the woman replied in perfect English.
Ormsby peered at her in surprise. “What name is it under?”