Page 14 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“I’m sure you do,” he said, lips curving, “but I’m craving laksa right now. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Downtown. There’s a place in the Michelin guide I’ve been dying to try—unless you know somewhere better.”

“No, I don’t.”

Dannie practically dragged me toward the guest room I’d been occupying for far too long.

“Wait,” he said, stopping in the doorway, face suddenly serious. “Don’t tell me you hate laksa.”

“No…”

“What?” His expression dropped like I’d confessed a crime. “You haven’t tried laksa.”

“No. I mean, I haven’t really tried any street food since I got here.” I winced, knowing how bad that sounded. “Apart from the coffee and that raw, sugary combo you called breakfast this morning.”

“Oh my God.” He huffed out a chuckle in disbelief. “You’ve been here for a month and haven’t eaten any local food? This is criminal! They should arrest you at the airport for that.”

He stepped behind me and gave me a playful shove toward my room. “You know what they call Malaysia? Food heaven. And Penang—Penang has the best food in the country. Now go get changed!”

Obediently, I opened my wardrobe and pulled out a light summer dress I’d bought at a night market.

The fabric smelled faintly of lemongrass and detergent—clean, familiar.

As I slipped it on, I could hear Dannie shouting from the living room—half to me, half to himself—ranting about how outrageous it was that I’d survived this long without tasting the best food in the country.

His voice carried through the walls, steady and full of life. For a fleeting second, I realized how much lighter the apartment suddenly felt.

An hour later, our driver pulled over to the side of a narrow, sun-bleached street. Dannie had arranged the ride through the apartment’s management office—one of the perks that came with living in his kind of building.

The place ran almost like a boutique hotel. You could call downstairs for anything—housekeeping, food delivery, even a private driver. Most of the owners didn’t live here full-time; they were part of the same visa program Dannie was on. To them, this wasn’t home—it was a convenient second base, a tropical escape.

Dannie apologized for not telling me sooner about the driver service, but I waved it off. “How did you get around normally?” he asked as we stepped out.

“Grab,” I said flatly. “The internet told me it’s the easiest way to get around.”

The sun hit me like a slap the moment I looked up. Dannie moved instinctively in front of me, arm stretched out like some protective human barrier. He’d had the driver drop us on the opposite side of the road, which now looked like a chaotic, fast-moving death trap. Cars drifted between invisible lanes, and motorcycles zigzagged through gaps that clearly weren’t there.

“You didn’t think of hiring a car? It’s dead cheap here,” he said, eyes squinting at the oncoming swarm.

“Let’s just walk across first,” I drawled, dragging out the word for dramatic effect. “Then we can talk about cheap car rentals and dying young.”

We made it across alive—barely—and by the time my pulse stopped pounding, our driver had already done a U-turn and parked neatly on the curb across the street.

Dannie shot me a smug look.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Next time we’ll just stay in the car and enjoy one more minute of air-conditioning.”

A breathy chuckle escaped, wiping sweat from his face with a tissue. His white, fitted T-shirt clung to him instantly. It was funny seeing a man like Dannie—a triad boss, a walking wall of calm authority—brought down by heat and humidity.

In some ways, I was lucky. The heat didn’t bother me much. My body barely sweat, no matter how warm it got. Some people said that was unhealthy, but there wasn’t any conclusive research to support either side. At least, not in the medical textbooks I’d read.

The café Dannie had chosen turned out to be a small, open-air shop wedged between two shophouses. No air conditioning—just ceiling fans turning lazily, pushing around the scent of fish soup, chili, and shrimp paste.

It only served one dish: laksa. The best in town, according to that French guide that somehow also reviewed tires.

Every table was full when we arrived. The clatter of bowls, the hiss of boiling broth, and the rhythmic sound of metal spoons tapping ceramic bowls filled the humid air.