Page 21 of Billionaire’s Cruelty

“Take your money, bitch.” The fake IDs and a few lighter objects bounced as she slammed her fist against the old desk. “Sorry… I don’t want any trouble, ah-sou.”

She stood abruptly and bowed, her dark brown eyes even darker—filled with a quiet, desperate plea for me to leave her and her business alone.

I stayed still, watching her tremble slightly as she took another sharp inhale. Whoever had warned her off wasn’t just issuing empty threats. Fear clung to her like a thick cloud of smoke in the room. This wasn’t about greed or pride, this was survival.

And I was a problem she wanted gone.

“I’m not asking you to⁠—”

“Please.” The word slipped out before she could stop it, low and shaky. She wasn’t just refusing. She was scared. And whoever was behind it—whoever had shut down every option I found—was someone she didn’t dare cross.

I stuffed the cash back into the pocket of my hoodie and left without another word.

No thanks. No goodbye. No more begging for help.

I walked out of the massage parlor and hurried away from the block of old, run-down shops. A hand grabbed the back of my elbow, making me jump.

“Slow down.”

It was just Wendy.

I was okay.

“Sorry,” I half mouthed, half whispered.

Wendy kept a firm grip on my elbow, gently steering me away from the middle of the sidewalk. People in Kowloon didn’t walk as fast as the New Yorkers, but they weren’t shy about giving you a hard, judgmental once-over—or barking out a curt, unfriendly hey if you were in their way.

“Let’s go inside, I can do with one of those,” Wendy said, nodding towards the rows of egg custard tarts displayed behind a glass cupboard.

My feet followed Wendy into the run-down cafe, which sold nothing but Chinese egg tarts and a few cold beverages. The air was thick with the scent of butter and sugar—comforting, but far from calming.

After a loud back-and-forth exchange of broken English mixed with Mandarin and Cantonese, an old lady finally handed Wendy a brown box.

Wendy flipped it open the moment as she paid.

“Keep the change,” she said, crumbs falling from her mouth as she spoke. With one hand on the box and the other gripping a half-eaten tart, there was no way she could take the change anyway. “This is the real deal—way better than the ones from Chinatown.”

The elderly couple behind the counter bustled around, serving a few passersby and greeting regulars by name. But their attention never fully left us. We settled at one of the two small tables available—not that we had much choice, one table was occupied by their makeshift workstation, piled with flattened boxes waiting to be folded.

Their eyes darted over to us every so often, as if to figure out why we were there. They must have been in their seventies, or maybe late sixties. When they weren’t serving customers, the wife folded boxes while the husband scrolled idly through his phone. Yet, every time our eyes met, they offered us the same polite, awkward nod.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Wendy said, biting into her second egg tart. But the relaxed tone in her voice told me we weren’t leaving anytime soon.

I exhaled a long, heavy sigh. “Well…I suspect my ex is behind all this.”

“Fu–” Wendy reluctantly put down her new favorite food and gulped down some water to calm her cough. “Who the fuck are you, woman?”

She screwed the cap back onto the bottle of mineral water she’d stolen from the airline catering cart this morning.

I glanced up, and our eyes met. There were questions in her gaze—I could see that—but there was more. Concern and worry, I guessed, maybe even a hint of judgement, though I couldn’t be sure.

Like her, I was feeling all those things, and more. I was worried about Kai, Lucy, Jenny, Dave and his team. I felt useless for begging my brother for help. Incompetent for needing Wendy to babysit me. And exposed—because my past, the part no one knew about, was about to be laid bare.

Could I trust her?

Would she report everything back to Lincoln and Chloe?

Most likely.