The Billionaire's Second Heartbreak

Chapter 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.

Baldy and another man rushed over, positioning themselves between me and the driver as his volume only increased. Long strings of curses flew in my direction—words meant for me, my mother, and likely my entire lineage.

I didn’t understand most of it.

“Can you get up?” Siti asked gently, her face close to mine.

I nodded.

With her supporting me, I pushed myself upright. Only then did I realize how long I’d been sitting there. Traffic had begun backing up behind the yellow car, horns blaring impatiently. The driver waved frantically, shouting for me to move—now.

As I stood, a small crowd formed behind me. The driver’s wife stepped out of the car, joining in, her voice shrill as she added her own string of insults to the chaos.

“What’s going on?” I asked Siti, already realizing she was just as lost as I was.

“I’m not sure,” she said, her fingers curling tighter around my arm. “But we should get out of here.”

Guilt pricked at me. Dragging Siti into this mess hadn’t been fair. Needing a personal assistant for something as simple as attending a funeral made me feel useless—incapable. Weak.

Things hadn’t always been this way.

For most of the past year, I’d stubbornly refused help from my family. I told them I was fine. That I could manage. It was Liam—the quiet one, the brother who usually stayed out of my business—who ignored me completely and went straight to Siti with a job offer and a salary she couldn’t refuse.

I’d been annoyed at first. Furious, even. He’d gone behind my back after I’d explicitly said no. But the moment Siti showed up, my life shifted.

She was calm where I spiraled, organized where I shut down. Somehow, she made chaos feel manageable. With her beside me, I could breathe again—really breathe—for the first time in months.

Now, though, the noise was pushing past what my brain could tolerate. Shouting. Honking. Voices overlapping in a sharp, relentless wave.

I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to hold myself together. The stress—no, the grief, the anticipation of it—was clawing its way up my throat.

“Why did you run into the road like that?” Siti asked gently, though her grip tightened around my arm. “It must have been important.”

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Concerned.

Over the past year, I’d thought a lot about what Lincoln had been telling me all along—that I needed to grow up, to stop acting like a child.

Maybe he’d been right. He hadn’t been cruel.

Just honest. Being the youngest meant I’d spent my whole life being protected, spoiled without even realizing it.

But things were different now. I had a child of my own to care for. I couldn’t keep expecting everyone else to catch me when I fell. It was time I learned to stand on my own.

“I…” I opened my mouth. There was no shame in the truth. None at all. And yet—“Pads,” I lied finally. “I was going to grab some from the store.”

The moment I said it, it sounded pathetic.

“Oh.” Siti’s brows knitted together. “I packed some for you. They’re in your suitcase.”

“Really?” I shook my head, instantly regretting it as pain throbbed behind my eyes. The headache was getting worse. “I didn’t unpack,” I admitted.

I’d traded unpacking for sleep—desperate, bone-deep sleep. But even if I’d seen them, I would’ve found another excuse to leave. I needed an escape.

Pads or no pads.

The driver was still shouting. Even though I was well off the road now, standing by the curb, his rage hadn’t cooled. If anything, it had grown louder. More vehicles were honking behind him, voices joining the chaos, demanding the road be cleared.

“What the fuck is all that noise?” The voice cut through everything.

A woman in a tailored black suit stormed out of the funeral home, Chanel-sharp from head to toe. Pearls. Heels. Authority woven into every step.

“Do they know where they are?” she snapped. “Show some fucking respect!”

“Laura,” I said, the name slipping out before I fully registered her.

She turned. For a second, I almost didn’t recognize her. Not because of how she dressed, but because of what she carried now.

The bright, bubbly girl I once knew had hardened into someone else. Sharper. Colder.

“Ah-sou.” She dipped her head, her body following into a small, formal bow.

Sister-in-law. My chest tightened. The word echoed without being spoken.

Before I could respond, Laura spun toward the men nearby. “Sort this out. Now!”

Three men moved instantly. They surrounded the driver, yanking him from the car before he could react.

He fought—wild, panicked—but it was useless. He was thin, all noise and fury with no real strength behind it. Within seconds, his shouting collapsed into grunts, pleas, and broken words begging them to stop.

The road went quiet. People stared. Phones hovered but didn’t quite rise. Everyone still remembered where they were.

Laura turned back to me, her expression softening by only a fraction. “Are you alright?”

I nodded, though my legs still felt weak.

All around us, black-clad guests shifted uncomfortably, whispers rippling through the crowd. The air was thick with tension—grief layered with expectation, eyes measuring reactions, judging composure.

The skinny man in his thirties fought wildly, swinging fists and throwing sloppy punches as the men closed in from all sides. If he’d been bigger—stronger—maybe he would’ve stood a better chance. But against three solid bodies, he probably still wouldn’t have had much of one.

The shouting stopped. What came out of his mouth then were broken sounds—grunts, sobs, fractured pleas begging them to stop.