Page 44 of Billionaire’s Ruin

I blinked. “I don’t know. Am I?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe not that big a deal,” he said, grinning. “But you’re, like, super mega gigantic rich.”

I wasn’t that oblivious. I had some idea that my family had money—you couldn’t not notice when your mother wore diamonds like they were buttons, or when your father’s office had its own elevator. But I never really knew how much. No one ever told me, and honestly, I never asked.

“Aren’t your parents rich?” I asked.

Xiao Wu puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish, rolling his eyes as if I’d asked the dumbest question imaginable. “Not like yours.”

“Well, rich is rich. What’s the difference?”

“Oh,” he tutted quickly, his tongue flicking against his teeth in a rhythm that sounded like a tiny drumbeat. “Silly, silly child,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “My lineage has power. Power no money can buy. And that,” he added with exaggerated drama, “makes us very, very, very, very, very…”

“Influential?” I finished for him.

“You got it, kid.”

“So, should I bow to you then?” I teased, trying to sound serious, though the corners of my lips betrayed me. I couldn’t help but wonder—what kind of power did he mean? The magical kind, like in the cartoons we used to sneak-watch at night? Or the kind that made grown men shake when they heard your name? Maybe, if I stayed quiet long enough, he’d tell me.

“Nah,” he said, grinning. “You’re alright. We’re brothers.”

He raised his fist, and I met it with mine—a small thump that somehow sealed something bigger than a promise. Then he finally sat upright, leaning his head against the cool glass window, watching the traffic crawl past.

I tried to recall what the museum director—Mr. Xia, that was his name—had said during the tour. The man had gone on and on about each object, his voice a steady hum that made my eyelids feel heavy. But I really had tried to remember. It wasn’t just for me—it was because Mom would definitely ask later. She always did.

After all, my parents had donated the money that made the new collection possible. Or “invested,” as my father liked to correct people.

“Maybe Mr. Xia wasn’t bowing,” I said, pretending to think hard. “Maybe he just had a sore neck.”

“Dude.” He snorted. “Just admit you didn’t notice a single thing.”

“I did,” I insisted. “I was studying the artifacts the nice old man was showing us.”

He laughed and kicked me lightly in the shin. “You’re such a nerd.”

I shook my head, frowning even though a smile tugged at my lips. “No, I’m not. And you know that.”

Little Wu always used words I’d only ever heard on TV—dude, bro, cool. He made everything sound like an American movie. Being called a nerd wasn’t even an insult here. Not in China. But still… it didn’t feel like something I wanted to be.

“How much did your parents give them?” he asked suddenly.

I shrugged. “I don’t remember. Why do you care?”

My friend groaned dramatically and began tugging at his outfit like it was trying to strangle him. The bow tie went first, then the suit jacket. “I can’t breathe in this thing!”

“Stop it,” I hissed. “You can’t just take your clothes off in here!”

“Give me your shirt,” he demanded, half laughing, half serious.

“No way,” I shot back, clutching my own collar like he might actually grab me. “Just because you hate what you’re wearing doesn’t mean I have to undress!”

Now I really wished Ayi were here. He wouldn’t dare act up in front of her. One look, one snap of her fingers, and he’d sit up straight like a soldier. That was her superpower—invisible but absolute.

Ignoring me completely, Xiao Wu reached down to the footwell and grabbed my backpack. “What’s this?” he muttered, rummaging until he pulled out a neatly folded white polo shirt.

“Probably for tennis,” I said, rolling my eyes. “How would I know? Ayi packs everything.”

He slipped it on over his undershirt, buttoning it halfway. “Do I look better in this?”