Page 8 of Billionaire’s Heartbreak

“Almost eighteen months.” Lucy answered without a pause.

“Oh.” That was all she said as Huan’s nanny and security finally caught up. Her eyes flick toward them—the quiet judgment, the unspoken question.

A child this young needs this much protection?

I hadn’t wanted it either. But Lucy had insisted. This wasn’t a place where she could risk Huan Huan safety. And I couldn’t exactly argue with that.

We moved down the long entrance path, wreaths lining both sides—white flowers, yellow chrysanthemums, black ribbons fluttering in the rising wind. The stone beneath our feet was darkened by the first drops of rain, and the wind carried the scent of wet earth through the open courtyard.

Behind the wreaths stood cameras. Long lenses peered through the gaps like silent witnesses.

They didn’t step forward. Didn’t shout. They simply observed. Recorded. Then the questions came. About me. My wife. The little girl.

I ignored them all. They would write whatever they wanted. Spin whatever story fit their narrative. Build a scandal from a single glance. I wasn’t about to give them anything extra—not a quote, not a nod, not even a stray expression they could twist into a headline.

We stopped before the altar.

It towered over the hall—a grand Buddhist funeral altar draped in white and gold silk, framed by dark carved wood stained from years of incense smoke. Somewhere near the altar, a monk murmured prayers beneath his breath, the low chanting blending with the occasional chime of a handbell.

June handed us incense.

We followed the directions of the funeral attendant standing beside the microphone. He announced our arrival, then guided us through the ritual. We placed the incense into the large bronze bowl, its ash already thick with the offerings of hundreds before us.

My gaze lifted to the portraits. Two framed photographs rested side by side—one slightly larger, more central.

Auntie Five. And her mother.

Two women. Same family. Same day.

I stared at Auntie Five’s photo—the version of her the world loved. Radiant. Laughing. The kind of woman who didn’t just enter a room, but owned it.

She hadn’t been the most conventionally beautiful—not in Shanghai, where perfection was practically manufactured—but she had something else.

Fire. Confidence. A kind of reckless charm that made powerful men stupid.

I remembered the stories. The suitors. The drama. The way my mother and her friends whispered about her like she was both scandal and aspiration wrapped into one.

Her life after leaving Shanghai hadn’t been kind.

Three marriages. Three expensive divorces. Each one stripping something away.

Then my eyes moved to the larger portrait.

Her mother. Quiet. Reserved. A woman who had only ever loved one man.

Auntie Five used to mock that. Said her mother had lived like an old-world queen, while she herself was Princess Margaret—scandalous, modern, untouchable.

Now both of them were gone.

“Heart attacks.” The official explanation. Ridiculous.

The hall buzzed with restrained speculation. No one said it out loud, but the disbelief hung thick in the air.

June didn’t sit with the family. She chose a seat among the guests.

My feet moved before my mind could stop them. I stopped in front of the woman seated beside her. She understood immediately and stood, surrendering the seat.

I sat.