Page 78 of Billionaire’s Ruin

Could Kai really be taken?

Maybe he’d just lost his phone. Maybe someone stole it. And no one could reach him, that’s all.

But how could one person be this unlucky? What was I even hoping for—miracles?

“Miss?” The driver pressed.

Finally, my lips moved on their own, betraying me before my brain could protest.

Kai’s address.

It was pathetic, how quickly the answer came. The only place in this city I truly knew—because it wasn’t just an address. It was the place where my life had changed… for better or worse.

The scar burned. Sharp, sudden, electric. Pressing a hand to my lower stomach, covering the spot where I’d been stabbed. I thought the wound had healed, but the phantom pain seared through me again—right where his mother’s nail file had pierced me. The memory hit me like a punch, violent and immediate, so vivid I could smell the tang of metal in the air.

I blinked rapidly, trying to shake it off, but the tremors wouldn’t stop. One—in, out. Two… I couldn’t reach the third. My lungs locked tight, immovable.

Memories.

Thoughts.

The bad ones always found a way back in.

By the time the car pulled up to his building, I was a wreck—hands shaking, throat dry, heart galloping like it wanted out. I climbed out before the driver could open the door and headed toward the entrance.

The doormen recognized me instantly. One of them quietly escorted me to the private elevator, no questions asked. My fingers wouldn’t stay still the whole ride up, curled into tight fists and then opened again. Every floor number that blinked past made my chest tighter, heavier, like something was compressing me from the inside.

When the elevator finally stopped, the door slid open automatically. As if it had been waiting for me.

For a heartbeat, for one reckless, fragile second, I hoped foolishly that he’d be standing there.

Kai. Standing there. Alive. Annoyed. Ready to lecture me. Ready to kiss me. Ready to fight me and hold me all at once.

But it wasn’t him.

And then I saw who it was.

My brother.

Lincoln didn’t speak. He didn’t need words. His expression collapsed the moment he saw me—relief, fear, anger, heartbreak all tangled together.

He stepped closer.

His arms wrapped around me so tightly it stole what little steadiness I had left, but I didn’t need to. I folded into him like a child, my forehead pressed into his chest as he held me so tightly it felt like letting go would break him. I felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat, wild and uneven. His hands trembled where they gripped the back of my head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and his voice cracked.

My throat tightened until speaking was painful. “No, I’m sorry,” I mumbled into his shirt, swallowing the sob that clawed at me.

We stayed like that for a long time—silent, unmoving, clinging to each other as if time had stopped.

When I finally pulled back, his eyes were wet. Just like mine.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Lincoln murmured, voice raw.

“I had to,” I breathed.

His jaw tightened. “Not after what he did to you.”