Page 7 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Speak with Andy,” I said finally, loosening my tie. “Have her arrange something.”

Compassion. A useless, dangerous thing.

The moment it surfaced, I crushed it down. Heat rose in my chest as resentment burned through reason, my mother’s voice echoing in my mind—shrill, vicious—and the memory of her nails raking across June’s face.

“That’s wonderful news. She’ll be thrilled to see you,” Angela said lightly, clearly mistaking my pause for agreement.

I exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Actually, invite a few of her friends over for Mahjong. Have Andy pull a guest list.” I paused, as if it had just occurred to me. “And make sure her medication dosage is increased slightly. Keep her calm.”

Angela’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Yes, Li Zhong. I’ll handle it.”

“Good.”

I waved a hand to dismiss her, and she gave a curt nod before stepping back, bowing slightly as she left my office—a space no one entered without my permission.

Angela came highly recommended by a friend—a man who had survived a family empire far more toxic than mine.

He told me she had a way of handling difficult parents, the kind who thrived on control and emotional warfare.

I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t need to. She was perfect for what I needed, even if I could never explain why.

I knew she was sick—had been for years. But in her world, sickness of the mind didn’t exist. You were either sane or insane. There was no middle ground. No treatment. No redemption.

That was why she never helped Jenny.

To her, Jenny’s breakdown was self-inflicted—a weakness, not an illness.

Once you admitted you were broken, you gave the demon a name. And once the demon had a name, it owned you.

But enough was enough.

I’d put up with her madness for long enough. Her moods, her impossible standards, her manipulative games.

But the moment she laid hands on June… that was the line I could never cross again.

The memory struck me in fragments: June’s face, pale and pleading. One hand reaching for me, the other pressed against her stomach where my so-called mother’s knife had found her.

I hadn’t slept properly since that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again—her lips forming my name in silence, begging me to help.

I should sell the penthouse.

It used to be my refuge—a space untouched by the crazy woman’s control. Now it felt cursed, a mausoleum of my failure. Even the marble floors seemed to whisper reminders of what I’d lost.

I rose from my chair, the brown leather groaning beneath me, and stretched until my neck cracked. The sound echoed faintly against the hum of the air conditioning.

From the corridor, a large silhouette appeared. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with quiet precision. I allowed myself a small smile.

“Dave, my most trusted man,” I called. “How are you today?”

“I’m okay, boss.” His voice relaxed, but he looked different. Thinner. Sharper. The man had lost at least fifteen pounds since I last saw him.

“You sure you’re ready to be back?” I asked. “You could’ve taken another month.”

He shrugged, offering a faint grin. “Didn’t feel right sitting around while you were here alone.”

“What’s your plan today?” I asked out of habit. I never actually needed to. His plans were mine by default.

“Whatever you have in mind, boss.”