Page 55 of Billionaire’s Cruelty

However, it was strange—why would someone target Dave and my innocent June?

Approximately two hours later, Trevon received a text from Wendy. She and June were both at a party in the grand ballroom, and she would find an opportunity to sneak out and meet us.

I couldn’t wait any longer. We had been sitting ducks, anxiously waiting to hear from them. Every time Trevon’s phone made a noise, my heart leaped, only to be disappointed when it wasn’t Wendy.

I couldn’t help but wonder if June had tried to contact me. Without my phone, there was no way to know. Trevon had tried calling it, but it went straight to voice mail.

“I’m going to find her,” I declared, ignoring Trevon’s advice to get some rest. My body and mind simply wouldn’t allow it.

I jumped up and began searching for the shoes I had kicked off earlier.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t even know where they are,” Trevon argued.

“We could split into two teams. We’d find them faster that way,” I suggested.

“Right. And how am I supposed to contact you if I find them first? Huh?”

“What makes you think you’ll find them first?”

“Well, the chances are fifty-fifty.”

He had a point. My fondness for June made me think I would be the one to find her. Maybe it was desperation. I wanted so badly to see her again.

Things had spiraled out of control over the past few days. My cousin was in serious trouble, her husband was dead—possibly murdered by her, or even by me. Depends on which angle you looked at the situation from. Jail was a looming possibility.

I couldn’t let anything happen to June too.

“How about we go together?” Trevon suggested. “Clare can search on her own and call us if she finds them first.”

We agreed to his plan. Clare would check the hotel’s five bars and restaurants, while Trevon and I headed to the ballroom.

When we reached the first floor, we discovered there was only one party happening that night, located in the grand ballroom. There was no sign outside of the door. Typically, the hotel displayed signs for birthdays, weddings, or other celebrations, but tonight, nothing.

The only indication of a party were the two guards posted outside, scanning every visitor who entered and exited.

Trevon and I decided to pull an old trick that had worked for us many times back in college: the drunken monkeys. We wrinkled our suits, messed up our hair, linked arms and stumbled into things, walking crookedly to the entrance. I half-laughed and half-shouted while Trevon giggled, slurring words that made no sense.

The taller guard with military haircut barked something in Cantonese. The younger guard, whose hair was perfectly gelled, spoke in English. “This is a private party.”

“I’m a guess, damn it,” Trevon slurred.

Though my Cantonese was limited, I caught bits of their conversation. Military Hair was flexing his chest muscles, complaining that he was bored and wanted to beat us up. Hair Gel disagreed, arguing that unless they called for backup, they couldn’t both leave their post. They mentioned something about their boss.

A smartly dressed couple arrived. The short, bald man nodded at the guards and mentioned his name. Immediately, the guards transformed, offering warm smiles and a welcoming demeanor that we didn’t witness earlier. Hair Gel opened the door wide for the couple, while Military Hair stood firmly in our way. Preventing us from sneaking past the door.

Taking advantage of the situation, Trevon and I tried to sneak a peek inside. We continued our drunken act, bouncing on our toes and flailing our arms as if we were trying to climb over the guards.

“Let’s find another party. This one isn’t fun,” Trevon said, tugging me away from the door.

“But I want to go to this one,” I pouted, digging in my heels.

“I’m Mr. Chen Gong.” I shouted in Mandarin.

I had no proof that Jenny’s husband had been invited to this party, but he was a notorious party boy. If anyone could get into an exclusive event, it would have been him. Name-dropping was worth a shot—even if, at this very moment, he might not be breathing.

“Mr. Chen?”

“Yes.” I was starting to think my trick had worked.