Page 1 of Billionaire’s Heartbreak

1

June

Eighteen Months Later

The sudden gust rocked the car, followed by a crack of thunder so loud it made me flinch. This wasn’t the heavy, predictable monsoon rain I’d grown used to over the years. This was different—sharper, restless. A storm was coming.

Thick gray clouds smothered the sky, layered so densely that not a sliver of blue remained. The weight of it pressed down on everything—the city, my chest. I couldn’t help thinking that even the weather was mourning today.

When the Range Rover finally slowed to a stop, I couldn’t tell where we were. Partly because I was still unfamiliar with most of Hong Kong’s roads, and partly because the tinted windows, combined with the oversized sunglasses perched on my face, turned the world outside into a blur of shadows and motion.

It didn’t matter.

We were here.

The funeral home loomed ahead, its entrance already crowded.

Outside, a sea of black and white stretched in every direction—the colors of death, of obligation. Clusters of people stood chatting quietly, catching up as if this were any other social gathering. Their voices carried an unsettling normalcy, laughter slipping through at inappropriate moments. Others stood alone, hands clasped, eyes fixed ahead—waiting for something.

Or someone.

I recognized a few faces. People who’d attended my fake wedding. Others from dinners and events I’d been required to show up for, smile at, endure. There were also celebrities—older Hong Kong stars I vaguely remembered from my mother’s TVB binges, along with a few familiar faces from the old kung-fu movies she used to watch. I even spotted Jackie Chan, or at least someone who looked remarkably like him. All of this was a distant reminder of the years before my mother had switched loyalties to Korean dramas. The car door opened abruptly.

A young man in a black-and-white suit reached in and pulled it open without waiting for permission, as if the decision had already been made for me. As if I weren’t capable of opening my own door.

I needed a moment. Just one. To breathe, to take in the scene, to gather whatever courage I had left.

I hated funerals. Hated the heavy sadness, the collective grief that clung to the air. If I’d had a choice, I would’ve avoided goodbyes altogether. I preferred remembering people as they were—alive, whole—without forever associating them with death.

But the young man clearly decided my hesitation had gone on long enough. It was time. The moment my feet touched the ground, heads turned.

Every single one.

Minutes ago, they’d been laughing, chatting, forgetting where they were. Now their attention locked onto me with unsettling intensity, as if my arrival was the real event. Like they wanted something from me—answers, acknowledgment, a reaction.

The pressure hit all at once. My foot slipped back instinctively as I turned, trying to steady myself, to regain the balance I felt slipping away.

And that’s when I saw it.

A 7-Eleven. Bright. Ordinary. Open. An escape.

Wasn’t there something I needed? There was always something. And suddenly, I knew exactly what it was.

I started toward the convenience store, weaving past black umbrellas and hushed conversations, telling myself I just needed one thing. Something small. Something I’d run out of.

I. Ran. Out.

A screech tore through the air. Then everything happened at once. Something struck me, and the ground slammed into my knees. I barely had time to register the pain before the world spun.

I found myself sitting in the middle of the road, my heart slamming against my ribs. The yellow car that had appeared out of thin air hadn’t actually touched me—but it might as well have. The shock of it, the suddenness, had stolen the strength from my legs.

“Oh my God!” Siti shouted, sprinting toward me.

She crouched down immediately, her eyes darting over my face, then my arms, my legs. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I said, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me.

The driver leaned halfway out of his car, shouting furiously in Cantonese. His words spilled out fast and sharp, accompanied by aggressive hand gestures. He was furious—about me stepping into the road, about nearly causing an accident, about nearly causing my own death.