Page 105 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not dying… not yet.”

I waited, watching him pull himself back together. Breathing even. Shoulders squared. Mask back on.

“I can feel there’s a ‘but’ coming,” I said quietly.

A ghost of a smile flickered. “Still reading my mind, huh? That’s what brothers do.”

I didn’t smile back.

I couldn’t.

“Spit it out, Xiao Wu. Tell me what you want?”

His expression sharpened—clean, decisive, cutting like a blade catching light.

“Leave June alone.”

The words landed like a punch to the sternum—quiet, final, as undeniable as a death sentence.

18

June

My legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed, crashing onto the cold marble.

The sound that tore out of me startled even myself—raw, primal, ripped straight from a part of me I didn’t even know existed. It was grief, panic, terror—all the pieces of me I’d shoved down finally breaking free, echoing off marble walls until the quiet afterward felt louder than the scream. Deafening.

What happened here?

We’d finally made our move—the big, brilliant plan Dave and my brother had spent weeks perfecting. The timing, the signals, the diversion, Lucy’s scarf, the team ready in position.

And for what?

Blood streaked across the marble in dark lines. Bodies groaned. Some lay unconscious. Others sat slumped against the walls, clutching bruised ribs or faces split open from impact. Furniture was overturned. Bullet holes perforated the plaster. A haze clung to the air like ghosts of chaos.

But none of them—none of them—were him.

My chest tightened so violently it felt like someone had reached inside and squeezed my lungs into fists.

Who moved him?

Who got to him before we did?

I lunged toward the nearest man, fisting the front of his collar, yanking him upright. A strangled gasp tore from his throat.

“Who took him? Where is he?”

The words came out sharp, jagged, tremors threaded through me with a mix of fury and desperation. I didn’t even realize how close my face was to his until he blinked, wide-eyed, confused.

That’s when I noticed a thin red line slid down his temple—the swelling around one eye—the dazed, frantic look of a man who’d been through hell and barely crawled out.

The poor bastard couldn’t understand a word.

Dave stepped in with a clipped, mission-sharp tone he used in the field, translating my rage into something the guard could comprehend.

“What is she asking?” the guard stammered in Mandarin, voice quivering as if the memory itself still haunted him.

“He wants to know where the young master is.” Dave translated back, frown deepening. He listened to the man’s explanation, brow knitting tighter with every word.