Page 93 of Billionaire’s Ruin

I turned and met Lincoln’s eyes head-on.

Steady.

Earnest.

Unmoving.

“Not a chance,” I said. The words came out harsher than I meant them to be, but I didn’t walk them back.

His jaw flexed. A tiny flicker of emotion crossed his face—worry, frustration, something else he’d never admit to.

“Horyi—” he began.

The nickname hit me like a blow.

Soft.

Old.

Too close.

Too much like who we used to be.

And for a suspended moment, I froze—not because of fear, but because a part of me still remembered exactly what it felt like to trust him.

“No.” I cut him off before he could soften, explain, or coax. “You told me to grow up. This is me—grown up.”

The words hung between us, sharp and trembling, and for one suspended heartbeat neither of us moved. The air tightened, thick with everything we didn’t have time to unpack—fear, history, anger, loyalty, something fragile simmering just right beneath the surface.

Then Dave barked an order from down the hall, and the moment shattered.

By the time we reached the underground car park, the engines were already rumbling. Headlights sliced through the darkness like impatient, restless eyes. The smell of exhaust and metal hit me hard.

I followed Dave without hesitation.

Of all of them, he was the one built for movement—no questions, no hesitation, no fear. If something was going down, he was already halfway there. And I wanted to be there, too. I needed to be there. The thought of staying behind again—of being useless, powerless, absent—triggered an ugly, twisting rush inside my ribs.

The city streaked by in a dizzy blur of roaring traffic. Every sharp turn made my pulse hammer harder. Every second felt like we were running out of time.

The moment the car skidded to a stop outside Kai’s family home, I was already shoving the door wide. The air outside was biting, almost icy with the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

We stormed through the entrance.

No guards.

No resistance.

No alarms.

Nothing.

The silence pressed down on me like a weight. Too quiet. Too smooth. Off.

The elevator crept upward at a glacial pace, its numbers blinking mockingly slowly. Dave cursed and veered toward the stairwell. We followed, boots pounding, breaths jagged and uneven. Burning spread through my lungs, but adrenaline shoved the pain aside.

Something was wrong.

Deeply, dangerously off.