Page 130 of Billionaire’s Ruin

And it was mine to keep or lose.

The air changed the moment we stepped into the old town.

Narrow cobblestone lanes curled between whitewashed walls. Wooden doors, weathered to warm brown, leaned slightly with age. Red lanterns swayed with every subtle breeze. It smelled faintly of soy, steamed buns, and river water—a scent that transported me straight back to childhood field trips and festival nights.

We walked side by side, our arms brushing every few steps, a barely-there touch that set off sparks I pretended not to notice.

Children zigzagged past us, kicking a paper ball wrapped in tape, their laughter bouncing around the alley like sunlight. A woman roasted chestnuts over a dented metal drum, the smoky-sweet scent curling through the air.

She paused beside the cart, eyes lighting with a flicker of childlike delight.

I bought a still-warm paper bag and passed it to her.

She grinned, blowing on the shell before cracking it open. “You’re starting to look human,” she teased, tossing the nut into her mouth.

“Was I not before?”

“Nope,” she popped the ‘p,’ smug. “You were just a perfect but expensive doll.”

“A doll?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like a Ken doll?”

She burst into laughter. “I suppose.”

We both laughed, though mine faded into a quieter, warmer sound—the type that lived in the space between us, warm and comfortable.

Too comfortable.

And maybe she was right.

Maybe I had been a doll—plastic perfection wrapped in tailored suits, moved around like a prop in my mother’s endless theater.

The streets narrowed further, forcing us to walk closer. Bikes rang their bells politely as they passed. Stray cats lounged under sunbeams like royalty. Life here moved at a pace my soul wasn’t used to—slow, simple, honest.

When we reached the river, the world felt even softer. Wooden boats bobbed gentle against old posts, their red lanterns faded, their ropes frayed but steady.

An old man sat cross-legged on the dock, his erhu balanced against his knee. His bow moved with trembling, practiced grace. The woman beside him sang in Kunqu tones, her voice rising and falling like something ancient and aching.

June stopped mid-step.

Her expression gentled, eyes warm with something close to reverence.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I murmured.

But I wasn’t looking at the singer.

After a while, I rented one of the little boats—paint chipped, canopy faded to a shy blue. I insisted on steering, even though June shot me that look. The doctor look. The are-you-sure-your-brain-is-working look.

She sat near the edge with her legs folded under her, the afternoon light painting her hair gold as ripples danced across her skin.

“Are you sure you know how to⁠—”

“Of course,” I said, grabbing the pole with entirely unwarranted confidence. The boat drifted smoothly… for ten seconds.

“I’ve seen people do this on TV⁠—”

Then I leaned too far.