Page 8 of Billionaire’s Ruin

Dave’s voice carried that usual calm—a mix of soldier’s discipline and streetwise patience. The new scar across his scalp caught the light, pale against his dark skin, like a caterpillar crawling slowly across the curve of his skull.

He didn’t try to hide it, and the scar didn’t seem to bother him.

I minded.

Every time I saw that scar, it reminded me what loyalty looked like—and what my choices had cost others. Dave had followed my orders to the letter, nearly dying in the process while protecting the woman I loved.

“How about lunch out today?” I said, masking the heaviness in my chest. “I’ve been meaning to try that new place on the waterfront.”

His eyes lit faintly. “Food? You don’t have to ask twice.”

I smirked. That was Dave’s one weakness.

Feeding him was the closest thing to thanks I could offer.

“We’ll go after we stop by the office. Andy should be there soon.”

Speaking of Andy, I’d tripled her salary after what happened. Not because she asked, but because it was the right thing to do.

Her loyalty had never been in question, but gratitude, I’d learned, needed to be shown in currency, not words.

People were easy to replace.

Loyalty wasn’t.

And I was done losing the few people I trusted.

My self-imposed thirty-minute limit in this house was up. That was as long as I could stand to be here—long enough to make sure the insane lady was stable, medicated, managed… and then I was gone.

Angela handled the morning updates now—vitals, behavior, mood. If anything seemed off, she contacted Dr. Jackson directly. I didn’t even have to ask.

Jackson had been treating my cousin Jenny at the facility for years. Keeping him on my payroll gave me control—over her care, over Mom’s, over the chaos that used to swallow this family whole.

Confidentiality gets flexible when the checks clear fast enough.

I shouldn’t have wondered about June, but I did.

Every morning, she found her way back into my thoughts like the tide—steady, inevitable.

The old me would’ve sent someone to track her down. Quietly. Efficiently. Just to know where she was, what she was doing, whether she was sleeping, eating, breathing. That was how I showed I cared—through control.

But Lincoln had warned me.

Give her space, Kai. Let her breathe.

He was right. If there was even a chance that June might forgive me someday, I had to stop chasing ghosts.

I adjusted my cufflinks, the habit grounding me as I strode toward the main door, my pace brisk.

Work.

The office was the only place I could bury the noise in my head.

Numbers didn’t bleed.

Contracts didn’t cry.

“Kai, my son.”