Page 23 of Billionaire’s Ruin

I popped two pills into his mouth and handed him a bottle of mineral water from the table. He took a swig, still watching me with that lazy, mischievous glint in his eyes.

“We should get some food in you fast,” I said, breaking the tension. “Didn’t you say dinner’s ready?”

“Yeah, come on. It’s quite a feast.”

The moment we stepped out, the rich, spicy aroma hit me full force. Pungent, warm, and alive—it filled the air in a way that made my stomach growl. The room turned into a battlefield of flavors, every inch of the counter covered with platters of seafood.

It must’ve been ages since the stove saw real cooking. There were at least eight dishes laid out—ten if you counted sauces and sides.

“Oh, look, the crabs aren’t moving anymore,” I joked weakly. My attempt at humor earned a round of laughter from both men.

“Beng made two flavors,” Dannie said, clearly proud of his friend. “This one’s chili, but he thought you might not be used to spicy food, so he made a simple grilled version.”

I pointed at a dish filled with strange spiny shells. “And those?”

Wiping his hand, Beng explained. “We call this ci lei. Spiky snail, maybe? Sorry, my English very poor.”

“No, no,” I said quickly, smiling. “Your English is perfect. And these—everything—looks amazing. Like a restaurant spread.”

Beng had no visible tattoos, not that I could see under his short sleeves, but something about him—the quiet confidence, the quick precision—hinted at the kind of man who’d lived several lives.

“Beng used to be a chef,” Dannie chimed in. “Owned a few seafood restaurants in town. His cooking’s legendary. Not many get to taste it these days.”

Beng rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed, then busied himself pouring everyone a glass of Tiger beer.

“I don’t cook now,” he said modestly, “just help behind the scenes.”

He lifted his glass, prompting us to do the same.

“Cheers,” I said, as both men shouted “Ganbei!” in perfect sync.

I took a small sip. The beer was crisp and light, with a bitter edge—like a weaker lager, but refreshing.

When we sat down, I stared at the spread—crabs, prawns, the spiky snails, crayfish, clams, squid, chicken wings. I didn’t even know where to start.

“Try this,” Dannie said, dropping a piece of fillet onto my plate, coated in chili-garlic sauce.

The aroma made my mouth water. It was exactly what I’d wanted to try, though I felt awkward about the communal style of eating. Growing up, I’d always felt clumsy tearing bits of fish from a shared plate without making a mess.

Still, I gave it a go. The dish melted on my tongue, spicy, fragrant, and impossibly fresh.

“Wow,” I murmured. “Okay, maybe I should start cooking seafood.”

Dannie held my gaze, leaning closer. “Or you can just keep marrying well.”

Ignoring Dannie, I turned to Beng. “What kind of catch is this? I’ve never had it before.”

“We call it pia kia in Penang, I think it’s called mo gui yu in Chinese.” I nodded politely at his effort, having no clue what either of those meant.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure,” Dannie added, brow furrowing as if searching his memory. ”I’m not exactly an expert on fish names, but I think it’s stingray—or something similar.”

“What?” I swallowed the second piece that was already in my mouth a little too fast. “You can actually eat that?”

Beng nodded, unfazed. “Yes, very fresh, from the local catch. I buy from fisherman earlier.”

“You bought it from the fisherman?” That was something I never realized you could do. Back home, fish came wrapped in plastic from the supermarket, complete with nutrition labels and expiry dates. “That sounds… fun, actually.”

Excitement filled Beng’s voice, “There’s a fishing village nearby. I can take you guys. Maybe you see their sampan out here—the little boats.”