Page 16 of Billionaire’s Ruin

He snapped a picture before I could protest. A second later, he held up the screen for me to see.

I looked ridiculous. My eyes wide, jaw hanging, skin glistening from the humidity. And yet… I looked content. Unburdened.

“Yummy!” I smiled, embarrassed.

The food was comforting—surprisingly so. I couldn’t tell how much of that comfort came from the dish itself and how much came from the man sitting across from me.

If I’d come alone, I never would’ve dared to eat here. Street food in a developing country was a doctor’s cautionary tale, usually ending with an unfortunate encounter with a squat toilet I wasn’t flexible enough to survive.

“It’s actually not that scary,” I said out loud before I realized.

“Huh?”

“Being here,” I clarified. “I don’t know why I was so nervous before. People here are patient—even when they barely understood each other.”

I scooped another spoonful of broth, tasting the strange, wonderful harmony of flavors—fishy, tangy, spicy, with a hint of sweetness that lingered like a secret.

It reminded me a little of Thai tom yum, a little of Chinese hot-and-sour soup, and somehow, a little of that French bouillabaisse my dad loved.

Except this—this was better.

“Wait until you try durian,” Dannie said, breaking my train of thought. He drained half his iced coffee in one go, looking both hot and miserable. “It’s even smellier.”

“No way,” I almost screamed. ”Nothing could possibly smell funkier than this.”

Right on cue, two bowls of icy brown dessert arrived. I frowned down at mine. There were green noodles floating in it.

“What am I looking at?” I asked, leaning closer like it might bite.

Dannie grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Welcome to Malaysia. This is cendol. Dessert, Malaysian-style.”

4

June

Dannie and I spent about an hour walking around George Town, trying to digest both the fish soup and the heavenly brown-sugar dessert with the odd green noodles. I was amazed that this country wasn’t plagued by obesity. These people were either blessed with good genes or the heat simply melted everything away. Someone should really do a study on that.

We stumbled upon street art scattered across the old walls—some hidden in alleys, others surrounded by crowds waiting for their turn to take a picture. One mural caught my attention: two kids laughing, a young girl in front carrying her little brother on an adult-sized bicycle. The bike was real, welded to the wall, while the kids were painted behind it.

“What were you like as a child?” Dannie asked after snapping a picture of me beside the mural.

“Constantly bothering my brothers, making them play with me and Chloe,” I chuckled. Memories flooded back—when I was obsessed with Beauty and The Beast and made my brothers play the monsters. Except in my version, there was no love story. I was the hero who killed the beast and saved the village.

“What about you?”

The question hung between us, heavier than it should’ve been. I quickly added, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He took a sip from his water bottle. “Like everyone else, I guess. Went to school, learned some stuff after school.”

“Oh, my mother made me learn a lot of stuff too,” I said, slowing my pace under the midday sun. “Violin, piano, ballet, swimming, painting… probably more I’ve already blocked out. Oh, and some kind of martial art.”

“Are you good at any of them?”

“Not really. Since I wasn’t good at any of them, by the time I got to high school, my mother made me focus on academics.”

“I did a lot of martial arts,” he said. “Not a lot of studying.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. I guess being able to protect yourself is kind of necessary in your line of work.”