Page 3 of Billionaire’s Heartbreak

She turned. For a second, I almost didn’t recognize her. Not because of how she dressed, but because of what she carried now.

The bright, bubbly girl I once knew had hardened into someone else. Sharper. Colder.

“Ah-sou.” She dipped her head, her body following into a small, formal bow.

Sister-in-law. My chest tightened. The word echoed without being spoken.

Before I could respond, Laura spun toward the men nearby. “Sort this out. Now!”

Three men moved instantly. They surrounded the driver, yanking him from the car before he could react.

He fought—wild, panicked—but it was useless. He was thin, all noise and fury with no real strength behind it. Within seconds, his shouting collapsed into grunts, pleas, and broken words begging them to stop.

The road went quiet. People stared. Phones hovered but didn’t quite rise. Everyone still remembered where they were.

Laura turned back to me, her expression softening by only a fraction. “Are you alright?”

I nodded, though my legs still felt weak.

All around us, black-clad guests shifted uncomfortably, whispers rippling through the crowd. The air was thick with tension—grief layered with expectation, eyes measuring reactions, judging composure.

The skinny man in his thirties fought wildly, swinging fists and throwing sloppy punches as the men closed in from all sides. If he’d been bigger—stronger—maybe he would’ve stood a better chance. But against three solid bodies, he probably still wouldn’t have had much of one.

The shouting stopped. What came out of his mouth then were broken sounds—grunts, sobs, fractured pleas begging them to stop.

It was hard to reconcile this crumpled figure on the ground with the man who, moments ago, had cursed my entire bloodline—spinning elaborate, vicious fantasies about how we should die.

I couldn’t summon even a shred of compassion for him as he curled into himself, arms shielding his head.

I’d forgotten my oath.

As a doctor, I was supposed to heal—to preserve life. Not stand there silently hoping someone would keep hurting him.

I’d felt like this once before.

When my attacker was hurt, truly hurt, I hadn’t felt joy. But I hadn’t felt sorrow either. I’d watched without emotion as the man was kicked and trampled, stripped of the arrogance he’d worn so easily.

He wasn’t so clever now. When it came to saving his own life, his creativity had run dry.

Then something bumped against my thigh—small and soft.

A little girl wrapped her arms around my waist, clinging to me as if I were the only solid thing left in the world. She repeated the same words the man on the ground had been saying, her tiny fists beating weakly against my back as she wiped her tears onto my already wrinkled black dress.

“Stop hitting,” she cried.

Siti reacted before I could. “What do you want, sweetheart?” she asked gently.

“Stop hitting,” the girl sobbed in English. “Stop hitting Daddy.”

“Where did she come from?” Siti called out—scanning the crowd but no one answered.

The back door of the yellow car stood open. She must have slipped out unnoticed while all of us were distracted by the spectacle unfolding on the pavement.

My chest constricted. “Can you stop?” I asked softly, shame prickling my skin. Part of me knew this chaos existed because of me.

The girl blamed me too. Her arms tightened around my waist, her little fists pounding against my back in uneven rhythm—as if each hit were meant to avenge her father.

My thoughts tangled. Loud noises always did this to me. I had my mother to thank for that.