Page 101 of Billionaire’s Ruin

I looked half-dead.

A hollowed-out version of myself.

A ghost of the man June once knew.

“Pathetic,” I muttered, the word scraping out of my throat. Maybe it wasn’t fair. Maybe it wasn’t true. But right then, it felt like the only thing I deserved.

Because this—running water, clean air, a door that didn’t lock from the outside—felt like luxury.

And that alone told me just how far I’d fallen.

But that was what captivity did.

It stripped you bare—layer by layer—until even the smallest comforts felt like luxuries. Until sunlight felt like forgiveness. Until the sound of your own breathing felt like proof you hadn’t disappeared yet.

I turned on the tap and let the water run for several seconds, watching steam coil upward from the tap. Then I collected it in my hands and splashed it onto my face.

The shock punched the air from my lungs.

Chilled. Clean. Real.

For a moment, I just stood there, drops sliding from my chin as I gazed into the glass at the stranger wearing my features.

My cheeks were sunken, my jawline too sharp, the outline of bone visible beneath flesh that once carried strength. I was dehydrated—dried out.

This was starvation disguised as medical care.

A slow erasing.

Evil Angela hadn’t exactly been generous while “looking after” me. Liquid meals. Watery porridge. Fruit juice—but only if the witch remembered. My stomach felt tight, shrunk, as if unused to the idea of nourishment.

My fingers locked tighter around the sink, grounding myself against the chilled porcelain—something solid, something that couldn’t sedate me or tie me down.

Then I heard it.

A faint noise.

Soft.

Subtle.

But real.

My body reacted before my mind did. I shut off the tap instantly, a thunderous rhythm pounding in my chest. Every nerve in me stood on edge, braced for footsteps, for the scrape of a lock, for my mother’s voice dripping poison into the air.

Silence.

But the kind of silence that had weight.

Presence.

I dried my fingers on the towel—quick, frantic, almost clumsy—and stepped toward the doorway. My hand hovered over the handle for a beat too long, the tremor in my fingers betraying me.

Then I turned.

The entrance swung open.

Brightness from the main room spilled in, warm and bright—too bright. My eyes narrowed, adjusting. Shapes sharpened.