Page 21 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Well, aren’t you lucky to be married to a man who can cook better than you?” His grin turned devilish.

“Baking cookies doesn’t count,” I shot back, trying for sass but ending up smiling too hard to pull it off.

“It counts, and you know it.” Dannie winked before turning toward the kitchen. “I’m going to check on Beng. You can handle a little heat in your seafood, right?”

“I can.”

“Perfect.”

“But are you sure spicy food’s a good idea?” I called after him, my tone softening. “You might have a mild fever.”

He just raised a thumbs-up over his shoulder without looking back.

Typical Dannie—too stubborn to admit weakness, even when his steps were a little too slow and his shoulders sagged more than usual.

I watched him disappear into the kitchen, listening to the clatter of pans and the faint hiss of something being washed under the tap. The air soon filled with the sharp scent of ginger and chili, mingling with the salty ocean smell from the crabs.

Somewhere between the laughter and the lingering warmth on my skin where his arms had held me, a thought settled quietly in my chest: if this was what “home” was, maybe I’d already found mine.

5

June

According to Dannie, Beng was the exception to the stereotype of Asian men. The man apparently knew his way around the kitchen better than both Dannie and me combined—at least according to what Dannie remembered from Beng’s last visit.

I stood by the counter for a moment, watching Beng move with quiet confidence. He navigated the space like it was his own, finding pots, pans, and utensils without hesitation. The sound of metal lids clinking and the rhythmic chopping of ginger and lemongrass filled the air, along with the faint sweetness of coconut milk and the sharp scent of chili. It was strangely comforting—like being wrapped in the warmth of someone else’s life.

Dannie, on the other hand, played the role of eager assistant. He handed Beng ingredients, washed vegetables, and made small jokes that barely got a reaction, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The two of them had a comfortable rhythm, one that made me feel… unnecessary. Like the third wheel in a dance where every step had already been memorized.

Before long, Dannie noticed me standing there doing absolutely nothing and waved his hand dramatically toward the living room. “Go relax, read your book, and let the professionals handle this.”

I rolled my eyes. And did as he said—sort of.

Instead of sitting back down with my book, I started wandering through the apartment, tidying up as I went. Wiping the dining table. Straightening a few throw pillows. Folding a dish towel that didn’t need folding. My hands needed something to do. My mind, something to occupy it.

The apartment was already spotless, of course. I’d cleaned the whole place myself yesterday, top to bottom. The only thing left for me to clean now would’ve been the ceiling—and even I had enough self-awareness to know that vacuuming while guests were over might be… weird.

Still, old habits die hard. I peeked into the guest room, checked the bathroom sink for water spots, even rearranged a stack of neatly folded towels.

Finally, my wandering brought me to Dannie’s room.

I hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. I’d been in there before—to borrow something, to fetch something for him, or to put something away—but stepping in now, with him busy in the kitchen, felt oddly intrusive. Like opening a page in a book I wasn’t supposed to read.

But curiosity won. It always did.

I turned the knob and slipped inside.

The scent hit me first—his cologne. Clean, warm, faintly woody. The kind of smell that clung to him even hours after he’d showered. It was everywhere now, mingling with the faint humidity that never quite left Penang’s air. His suitcase lay open on the floor beside the bed, clothes folded with military precision.

For a place that was supposed to be temporary, the room was perfectly equipped: spare clothes, toiletries, even a few framed photos on the dresser. I trailed my fingertips along the smooth wooden edge of his nightstand, realizing how quickly this place had begun to feel familiar.

When he’d first told me to make myself at home, I never expected I actually would. Yet somehow, this apartment had become more than just a refuge—it was… steady. A kind of peace I hadn’t realized I’d been craving.

Wendy would’ve rolled her eyes at me if she were here. She’d been skeptical of Dannie from the beginning. “Men like him,” she warned, “always have a price. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but you’ll pay, one way or another.”

Her words had lingered longer than I wanted to admit.

But I didn’t want to live like that—constantly suspicious, expecting betrayal from everyone who showed a bit of kindness. I wanted to believe that people like Dannie could exist: complex, flawed, maybe dangerous in their own way, but still capable of good.