Chapter 20
Kai
I picked June up from the hotel where she’d been staying.
After everything that had happened, she needed her own space—real space.
Not even Lincoln was allowed to stay in the same hotel, which said a lot.
It took me nearly two hours to get ready.
Partly because I hadn’t slept properly since waking from the drug haze, and partly I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself anymore. My muscles still shook sometimes, my appetite came and went, and every now and then the world tilted a little to the left. But none of that mattered.
She’d agreed to one last date.
I’d been stunned when she said yes.
Even more stunned when she said there was one condition: Dannie had to approve.
They weren’t together, not officially, not really. But after everything he’d done for us—saving me, protecting her—she said he deserved to know.
Deserved respect.
I couldn’t argue with that.
When I saw her in the lobby, something in me cinched tight in a way that was becoming far too familiar.
She wore a plain white T-shirt and skinny jeans—clothing so simple it almost startled me. Among the tourists and business travelers, she stood out not because she tried, but because she didn’t. No heavy makeup. No jewelry. No attempt at glamor.
Only her.
Effortless.
Real.
The version of her I liked most.
“You look gorgeous,” I said, a grin tugging at my mouth without my permission—something that hadn’t stopped since Dannie gave his blessing. Somehow, that man’s approval made breathing easier again.
“This?” she scoffed, glancing down at herself. “You must be crazy.” Then her gaze drifted over me, warming. “But you… you seem better. Healthier.”
The truth was, my body was still trying to remember how to be a body.
Food tasted strange. My stomach rejected anything heavy.
Sleep came in shallow snatches. But I’d managed to put back maybe twenty percent of the weight I’d lost. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to fool the mirror for a few seconds.
“Next step—muscle.” I flexed my arm jokingly. “Thinking of getting back into the gym.”
A small, knowing curve touched her mouth. “Just don’t push yourself too fast. You’ve been through enough.”
We drove east, letting the ferocious heartbeat of downtown Shanghai fade into something calmer. Buildings shrank. Streets widened. The city’s roar melted into something quieter, older—the soft rumble of scooters, laundry hanging from balconies, old ladies selling vegetables by the roadside.
The farther we drove, the more the knot inside me unwound.
Our destination wasn’t anything fancy—a preserved old water town tucked along the river. The kind of place people took engagement photos or visited during festivals. But on weekdays, it was almost empty. Quiet. Slow. A pocket of Shanghai where time forgot to keep up.
No flashing lights.
No cameras.
No one watching us.
A small slice of ordinary.
Only us.
“Where’s Dave?” she asked, glancing out the windows as we crossed a narrow bridge. “And the rest of them…”
“I gave them the day off,” I said, keeping my focus on the road.
The truth was, I hadn’t felt the need for security detail since finding out the truth—that for years, I was never really in danger at all.
Every panic button, every guard, every reinforced door… was simply another form of control.
Another leash.
Another lie from my mother.
She didn’t say anything—she didn’t have to. The quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt fragile, hopeful, like a new beginning neither of us knew how to handle yet.
But at least we were finally walking toward it instead of running away.
Still, I couldn’t fire them all. Too many of them depended on this job, and Dave—he was more than just the man who stood between me and danger.
He’d practically raised me.
Taught me how to fight.
How to listen.
How to survive.
He deserved more than a severance check and a pat on the back.
He deserved loyalty.
“It’s weird,” she whispered, her gaze sweeping the street as if she expected a shadow to peel off the wall. “Are you sure they’re not hiding somewhere? Watching us? Following us?”
I let out a soft, small laugh. “You think I’d bring them on our date?”
Her lips curved, a playful tug at the corner, but her gaze kept flicking to every reflective surface we passed—car windows, shop glass, the slow ripple of the river.
“Honestly? With you… I couldn’t put it past you.”
“Fair,” I admitted. “But it’s only us this time. No one else. No backup. No eyes. I promise.”
Her exhale came slow, like she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she finally let it go.
The sound pulled something tight inside me—not painfully, but with a kind of quiet awe.
It was trust.
Fragile. New.
And it was mine to keep or lose.
The air changed the moment we stepped into the old town.
Narrow cobblestone lanes curled between whitewashed walls.
Wooden doors, weathered to warm brown, leaned slightly with age.
Red lanterns swayed with every subtle breeze.
It smelled faintly of soy, steamed buns, and river water—a scent that transported me straight back to childhood field trips and festival nights.
We walked side by side, our arms brushing every few steps, a barely-there touch that set off sparks I pretended not to notice.
Children zigzagged past us, kicking a paper ball wrapped in tape, their laughter bouncing around the alley like sunlight. A woman roasted chestnuts over a dented metal drum, the smoky-sweet scent curling through the air.
She paused beside the cart, eyes lighting with a flicker of childlike delight.
I bought a still-warm paper bag and passed it to her.
She grinned, blowing on the shell before cracking it open. “You’re starting to look human,” she teased, tossing the nut into her mouth.
“Was I not before?”
“Nope,” she popped the ‘p,’ smug. “You were just a perfect but expensive doll.”
“A doll?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like a Ken doll?”
She burst into laughter. “I suppose.”
We both laughed, though mine faded into a quieter, warmer sound—the type that lived in the space between us, warm and comfortable.
Too comfortable.
And maybe she was right.
Maybe I had been a doll—plastic perfection wrapped in tailored suits, moved around like a prop in my mother’s endless theater.
The streets narrowed further, forcing us to walk closer. Bikes rang their bells politely as they passed. Stray cats lounged under sunbeams like royalty. Life here moved at a pace my soul wasn’t used to—slow, simple, honest.
When we reached the river, the world felt even softer. Wooden boats bobbed gentle against old posts, their red lanterns faded, their ropes frayed but steady.
An old man sat cross-legged on the dock, his erhu balanced against his knee. His bow moved with trembling, practiced grace. The woman beside him sang in Kunqu tones, her voice rising and falling like something ancient and aching.
June stopped mid-step.
Her expression gentled, eyes warm with something close to reverence.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I murmured.
But I wasn’t looking at the singer.
After a while, I rented one of the little boats—paint chipped, canopy faded to a shy blue. I insisted on steering, even though June shot me that look. The doctor look. The are-you-sure-your-brain-is-working look.
She sat near the edge with her legs folded under her, the afternoon light painting her hair gold as ripples danced across her skin.
“Are you sure you know how to—”
“Of course,” I said, grabbing the pole with entirely unwarranted confidence. The boat drifted smoothly… for ten seconds.
“I’ve seen people do this on TV—”
Then I leaned too far.
There was a splash.
A loud, humiliating splash.
The cold river swallowed my head before I even registered what had happened. One second I was a dignified man steering a boat; the next, I was flailing under the surface like a malfunctioning fish.
Arms flapping.
Legs kicking.
This was it.
This was how it all ended.
Pathetic.
Wet.
And spectacularly embarrassed.
“Kai!” Her voice reached me through the water—bright with alarm, but bubbling with giggles. “Stand up.”
“What?” I sputtered, swallowing half the river.
“Stand up, Kai!” She yelled again, louder this time.
I planted my feet on instinct—and froze. The water barely reached my waist.
“Oh…” I said, deadpan.
She doubled over. Her laughter was shaking her shoulders. “You’re such an idiot.”
I pushed my wet hair back, droplets streaming down my face like a sad fountain. “I was just testing the temperature,” I said with a straight face, dignity long gone.
“Sure you were.”
I wiped the moisture from my eyes and aimed a mock glare at her.
“Oh, you think this is funny?”
“It’s hilarious,” she said, doubled over with giggles.
“Oh yeah?” I crouched and scooped up a palmful of river water.
“Kai—don’t you da—”
Too late.
I sent a splash straight at her.
She shrieked, jerking back as the splash hit her legs and the front of her jeans.
“Kai!”
She glanced down at the wet patches spreading across the denim, outrage and laughter fighting for dominance on her face.
“This is cold!”
“That’s payback,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
She splashed back—her fingers skimming the surface—but it was enough to sprinkle droplets across my chest.
For a moment, we couldn’t stop, giggling like idiots, soaked, childish, and stupidly happy.
“Right, help me up!” I said eventually.
She reached out, her fingers small, warm, soft—her fingers sliding around mine. She tugged me up onto the boat, nearly falling in with me, her laughter ringing across the river.
For a few minutes, we just sat there, dripping and breathless, until our ribs ached from how hard we were laughing. Even the old man with the erhu shook his head at us, muttering something like “city boys have no sense.”
By the time the boat bumped gently against the dock, the sun was sinking, staining the river a deep amber. Lanterns flickered awake along the walkway as evening stretched across the sky.