Page 80 of Billionaire’s Heartbreak

My mother’s voice immediately appeared inside my head.

When are you going to learn to close things behind you?

I could almost hear her sigh.

Drawers. Doors. Cupboards. Everything you touch.

I smiled despite myself. “Leave me alone.” I shook my head. “I’m tired, Mom.”

It was strange how little silence it took. I’d spent years telling myself I needed time alone—time to think, time to hear myself—and apparently, all that quiet had given my brain enough space to bring my mother’s voice back.

Unbelievable.

I finally found the can opener. I reached to close the drawer, then stopped.

Something was wrong.

I looked at it again. The last drawer was slightly different. Or maybe I was simply exhausted, sleep-deprived, and running on adrenaline.

I pushed it closed, then opened it again. I looked at the drawer beside it, then back at this one, frowning as I pressed my fingers between my eyebrows.

“What am I doing?” I almost laughed at myself, but something still bothered me.

The depth. It didn’t look right.

I pulled the drawer all the way out and set it on the counter. Then I grabbed a knife and used it as a makeshift ruler, measuring the depth of the drawer beside it. Then this one.

There was a difference. Not much. About an inch. But it was there.

I emptied the drawer onto the dining table: utensils, packets, a few batteries, and random things that had somehow found their way into it despite having nothing to do with cooking.

Then I turned it over and tapped the back.

A dull thud. Then⁠—

Crack.

A small piece of wood popped loose, and something black fell onto the table.

I froze.

A small leather notebook.

For a moment, I simply stared at it. I’d searched Dannie’s apartment for days, looking through cupboards, drawers, shelves, and cabinets for anything that might help us understand what was happening. I’d never once considered that he might have hidden something inside the furniture.

Of course he had.

Dannie had lived his entire life knowing that information could get people killed. Even I had a hidden safe in my apartment back in New York—not because I had anything particularly dangerous to hide. Perhaps because having a secret compartment made me feel safer.

For Dannie, it wouldn’t have been about feeling safe.

It would have been survival.

I picked up the notebook. The leather was soft from years of handling. When I opened it, his handwriting filled the pages. I recognised it immediately.

The pages were filled with a strange combination of Roman letters, Chinese characters, numbers, symbols, and short phrases that made no sense together. I turned another page, then another.

I couldn’t understand a thing.