Page 27 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Cancer?” he asked, his pitch suddenly sharper, guilt seeping through the cracks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I scoffed at the absurdity of it.

Now he cared?

Now he wanted answers?

His words stirred something dark in me—an ache I thought I’d buried.

The sound of him. The presence of him. The way he made everything sound like my fault.

Did he blame me for it?

For being kidnapped?

For breaking Mom beyond repair?

Was that why he left her—for something easier, softer, cleaner?

Because facing the wreckage of what he’d done was too much.

“No, she’s bipolar,” I snapped. The words slipped out before I could think twice. “She’s had it pretty much all her life.”

“What is bipolar?” Dad leaned back. Then he let out a dry, mocking sound. “It’s an act, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not an act. I live with her.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like I’d just joined her cult. “Sounds like she’s getting to you too.” His mouth twisted into something between pity and smugness. “She did this to me, too, you know. Don’t let her. Listen to me, Kai—she does this to control you.”

I looked away. But it didn’t help. His words still crawled into my ears and stuck there like poison.

“She’s mentally unwell,” I breathed, louder this time.

“If you mean she’s crazy,” he paused slightly as if he was thinking, “then I couldn’t agree more.”

“Don’t call her crazy.” My tone snapped like a whip. “Bipolar runs in the family. If you’d ever cared about her—really cared—you’d know that.”

He scoffed, but I didn’t stop. The floodgate had already opened.

“What kind of husband runs away at the first bump in the road?” I asked. “Instead of caring for your wife, you found a younger, prettier replacement—with perfect health and no baggage. Must be nice, huh? To just run away, start over, and toss your problems aside like trash.”

I had never spoken to him this much in my entire life. Normally, I stayed quiet while he lectured, while he threw around words like discipline and respect. But now? I couldn’t shut up.

“It was all made up,” he said, brushing off my words with a wave of his hand. “I don’t believe in this bipolar, depression bullshit. People these days—so fucking weak. They can’t handle real life, so they blame it on their head.”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”

“Excuse me?” His eyes flared in disbelief, like no one had ever dared to talk to him that way.

“You should try living in my head for a day,” I growled. My throat burned, but I didn’t care. “Try to handle what I’ve seen—what I’ve felt—then tell me about weakness.”

A cold, hysterical part of me clawed its way out. It startled even me. For a split second, I thought I’d lost control completely.

Something cracked open inside me—the part I’d locked away for years.

Not just about him.

About her.