Page 72 of The Ruin I Chose

I was lucky that Cheung owned the place. I got an extra keycard to her room, just to leave the necklace on the bed. A quiet reminder that I hadn’t forgotten. That I still felt everything she did.

But the moment she unlocked the door, I had to hold her. To know she was real. That what we felt was real.

I touched her not to claim or possess—but to remember. To feel the echo of what we were. To remember the way she trembled beneath my hands. The way her silence spoke louder than any confession. The way her body answered questions her mouth couldn’t.

I missed her. Her scent. Her touch. The way her body responded to mine like it had never belonged to anyone else. I couldn’t resist kissing those plump, parted lips. And I wanted to do so much more. To make her feel loved. Seen. To tell her she wasn’t just a blip in my life. She was the rupture. The silence. The ache. That I was devastated when she left. That I hadn’t slept. Hadn’t touched another woman—couldn’t. Hadn’t stopped replaying the ten days we spent together.

I wanted to show her what she did to me. To worship her body. To remind her of the effect she had on mine. But I held back. With everything I had.

I wanted to fall into her. To lose myself in the woman who made me forget every rule I’d ever written. But I didn’t.

Because loving her meant protecting her. Even from myself.

But I should’ve said something. Should’ve told her I missed her. That I was still hers. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

I pulled out the letter. Read it again. Every word. Every line.

You said I was real. And I was.

And then she spoke my name. And I snapped out of the daze. I had to go before things got out of hand.

But now I regret it. Not because I don’t want her—because I know what this meant. She’s in danger now because of me. Again.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t drag her into my world again. But I’d already failed. And now, every breath she took might cost her.

The next morning, I sat across from Cheung in a private meeting room tucked behind the Velvet Room’s upper lounge. The walls were panelled in dark teak, the air thick with cigar smoke and quiet tension. A long mahogany table stretched between us, polished to a shine that reflected nothing but shadows.

Two men flanked Cheung—his son, and a fixer from Macau known only as Lin, with a scar that ran from temple to jaw. Two others I didn’t recognise sat to the left of the table. One was short, round-bellied, with a gold chain tucked beneath his collar. His name was Wong.

I lit a cigarette. My voice was low, calm.

“Lorenzo,” I said, voice flat. “I want him.”

“That’s why I called you here,” Cheung said, fingers steepled. “We have a common enemy.”

“He’s been interfering with our Macau routes,” Lin added. “Skimming off the top. Moving teens.”

“That’s not how we do business,” said Ronnie, Cheung’s son. “The women who work our clubs sell their bodies because they choose to. No one is forced.”

“Good to know we share the same sentiments,” I said.

“Lorenzo’s moving a shipment,” Wong spoke up.

“He’s arrogant. Thinks he’s untouchable. Some Triads from other provinces may support him, but we don’t want that here. It’ll come back to bite us.”

“We need to stop the shipment,” Cheung said.

“I can give you the arms,” I said. “Do you have the men?”

“Everything’s arranged,” Wong replied.

“The women will be rescued. The rest of the cargo—burned.”

“He’s hiding behind a shell company in Shenzhen,” Ronnie added. “We’ve traced an account to a woman in Naples.”

I exhaled smoke. “Isabella. She’ll be taken care of.”

“Shipment enters Chinese waters in three days,” Ronnie said.