Page 75 of Billionaire’s Ruin

I had a terrible history with airport security.

Before they even moved, I bolted. And the woman gave me the kindest fake smile as she promised she’d “add me to the wait list.”

There was no waitlist.

I knew it.

She knew it.

The universe knew it.

Wiping tears with the back of my sleeve, I wandered aimlessly through the small international terminal. Eventually, I drifted into a buzzing café near the entrance.

A family of three vacated a table, leaving behind half-eaten food, sticky spills, and abandoned napkins. Too drained to care, I sat anyway, letting the mess be my emotional support landscape.

At that same moment, a young blonde girl dropped into the seat across from me, setting her backpack down on the third chair. The girl didn’t ask permission. She simply claimed the seat.

Annoyance prickled as I stared at her audacity. Then again, technically we had both claimed the table at the same time. Maybe it was shared territory by default.

But still.

I was not in the mood to share anything.

“Hi,” the young woman in her early twenties greeted me.

Only a nod came out of me, as my throat refused to form any word. My vocal cords had simply gone on strike after the humiliation at the check-in counter.

“Sorry,” a sniffle escaped her. “I overheard… I think I can help you.”

“I’m not religious,” I replied without thinking. They always knew when and where to find you—when you’re sad and lonely, vulnerable and helpless. The airport was basically a breeding ground for spiritual recruitment.

An awkward little noise escaped her, something between a laugh and a squeak. Honestly, I didn’t have the bandwidth to decode it.

“Or…” Leaning forward, she said, “you could help me.”

“What do you want?” I snapped. “I’m not in the mood for⁠—”

“Do you want a ticket to Shanghai?”

Shut the fuck up.

“Are you mocking me? Who sent you? Did you see me earlier? Are you here to rub more salt into⁠—”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Her palm lifted in front of my face… bold for someone who barely looked old enough to rent a car. Her thick British accent made the command even sharper. “Please just listen for two minutes.”

My eyes rolled as I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “Go on. Only two minutes.”

My mind already drifted to my backup plan—sneaking into Dannie’s suite, finish the charts, figure out something else. Maybe I could charter a flight—no, too easy to track. Maybe⁠—

“Someone stole my passport and wallet⁠—”

Scam.

Every Malaysian public service announcement ever flashed through my head. Trafficking. Fake tickets. Organ harvesting. My gut screamed no.

“—June Bennet.”

“Wait. What? That’s not how it works. Tickets are non-transferable.”