Page 42 of Billionaire’s Ruin

My tantrum had delayed everything. Mom made sure I knew she was furious the entire time she got me dressed and forced me through breakfast while the driver fetched Xiao Wu. She’d warned me that if I wasn’t ready by the time the car arrived, she’d never speak to me again.

Another empty promise.

She had used the exact threat a hundred times before.

I turned toward Xiao Wu and nearly burst out in a choke of laughter, though I bit my lip to stop it.

He was dressed in the most ridiculous outfit I’d ever seen—a light gray suit jacket, crisp white shirt, polka-dot bow tie, gray shorts, and socks pulled all the way up to his knees. He looked like a character straight out of an old detective manga.

“My aunt made me wear it,” he said defensively, straightening his bow tie.

“Of course she did.” I nodded with exaggerated seriousness, tracing a figure-eight in the air with my eyes.

“At least it got a reaction out of you.” Xiao Wu grinned, winking.

And that did it. A small breath of amusement slipped out before I could swallow it. He’d always been the class clown, the one who could find humor in the dullest moment. Seeing him now, dressed like an overgrown schoolboy, was… well, hilarious.

“Remind me where we’re going?” I asked.

“I’ll give you a clue.” He tugged on his bow tie and pointed at his outfit.

“Museum?” I guessed.

He nodded, clearly proud that I’d figured it out.

Of course. The adults were never creative when it came to our “fun” days out. Always museums, galleries, or some “educational experience” that made them feel good about themselves.

Never the arcade.

Never the water park.

Xiao Wu had moved to Shanghai not long ago—maybe a year or two? Or was it just a few months? The days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last.

For a genius, as Dad liked to call me, I was terrible at keeping track of time.

Because in my world, the hours weren’t mine—they belonged to whoever dictated my schedule.

Time to wake up.

Time for piano.

Time for tennis.

Time for fencing.

Time to smile for the camera.

Time was just another word for obedience.

My caretaker managed my time like a drill sergeant. She was the one who told me when to eat, sleep, and breathe. My week was a map of neatly scheduled activities: piano, French, tennis, swimming, fencing, polo.

Swimming had replaced football—Mom decided it was “barbaric” after some kid tackled me too hard and left a bruise. Then she had Ayi enroll me in polo instead, boasting that I’d be training at the same club as “the non-prince from that faraway country.”

Because apparently, associating with semi-royalty was more important than learning to kick a ball.

“Where’s Ayi?” I asked suddenly, realizing she wasn’t in the front seat like usual.

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen her.”