Chapter 20 #2
We wandered to a small inn nestled between two teahouses—a place with paper lanterns swaying in a breeze and wooden stairs that creaked like they whispered secrets.
“Maybe next time,” she said, “let me drive.”
Her smile faltered—just a fraction—but enough for me to notice. Enough to tell me she remembered all the times she had saved me, in ways far bigger than pulling me out of a river.
“Let’s go get dry,” she murmured, her voice gentling.
We headed back toward the narrow street, our shoes squelching with every step. I hadn’t booked anything—not a hotel, not a room, not even a backup plan. A stupid part of me thought it would be romantic to wander and just… see where the day took us.
Spontaneity, right?
Except I’d forgotten one small detail.
It was festival week.
Every inn we passed had red paper charms blinking in the windows, pairs of shoes lined outside doors, lanterns hanging proudly—signs of fully booked rooms. At the second inn, the owner shook her head apologetically.
At the third, a young couple rushed past us, waving reservation slips like they’d won the lottery.
She arched an eyebrow at me after the fourth rejection.
“You didn’t book anything, did you?”
I cleared my throat. “I thought we could… improvise.”
“During a festival?” She said dryly, but her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Just when I started to think we’d have to walk all the way back out of town in soaked clothes, June spotted a small wooden sign half-hidden behind a hanging wisteria vine.
“Let’s try that one.”
We walked up the creaking steps, hope hanging by a thread.
Inside, the innkeeper looked up—a woman in her sixties with soft cheeks and the gentle smile of someone who’d spent a lifetime making travelers feel at home.
She took a look at us, “one room left,” she said matter-of-factly.
June blinked. “Just one?”
“Festival week,” the woman explained. “Everything else is full.”
I turned toward her, ready to offer alternatives. “We can go somewhere else.”
She hesitated—only for a heartbeat. Then her gaze flicked to the window where the rain had thickened, tapping against the roof in a steady rhythm.
“It’s fine,” she said at last, voice calm, a little breathy. “We’ll manage. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve… shared a space.”
Her cheeks warmed at the memory.
Mine probably did too.
“Alright,” I murmured.
The innkeeper led us up the narrow stairs to a small wooden room with a double bed, crisp white sheets, and a paper lantern casting a golden glow. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, warm and intimate.
The door clicked shut behind us.
June grabbed two towels from the wardrobe and tossed one to me. “Here. Change before you get sick.”
I chuckled. “You sound like my doctor.”
She raised a brow. “I am a doctor.”
“Right,” I said, grinning. “Forgot. A bossy one.”
“Someone has to keep you alive,” she countered, but the teasing mellowed the words, turning them almost tender.
I peeled my soaked shirt off, wringing it out near the window. Water streamed between my fingers.
Her gaze darted away, then flicked back to me.
Then looked away again—too fast.
Her eyes had given her away.
Just for a second.
Just enough to ignite the air between us.
The space felt smaller.
Warmer.
Charged.
I could feel her warmth calling out to me.
And suddenly, every reason we shouldn’t be doing this—every warning, every past mistake—fell away like discarded, drenched clothes hitting the floor.
She turned away, pretending to fuss with her towel, but I could see the tremor in her fingers.
“You should sit by the heater,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I didn’t move.
“June.”
Her name felt different now—no longer something I merely said, but something I carried. A vow. A tether. A truth I’d been trying to outrun since the moment I met her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
And everything inside me stopped.
Those eyes—soft, unsure, brave—were the same ones that once begged me to keep my distance, that warned me not to get too close. Now they held me like they wanted me to stay.
Really stay.
I stepped closer. Slowly, deliberately. Not the way I’d approached women in my past life—confident, careless, detached. This was different.
This felt like walking toward something I couldn’t afford to lose.
She didn’t step back.
Her breath hitched when my fingers brushed her cheek—light as a whisper, tracing the stray droplets clinging to her skin.
“You don’t have to—” I began.
“I know,” she whispered, cutting me off. “But I want to.”
The words punched the air out of me.
She leaned into the contact—like she’d been waiting. Like she’d been holding her breath for this moment, too.
My hands slid to her waist, the thin fabric of her shirt cool beneath my palms. I felt the faint tremble of her ribs as she inhaled, the quiet rise of her chest brushing mine.
Outside, the world blurred—the laughter drifting from the street, the distant hum of festival drums, even the river I’d fallen into. It all faded until there was nothing left but the two of us, suspended inside a room made of warm lantern light and unspoken want.
My thumb brushed beneath her jaw, and her inhale snagged—soft, sharp, electric.
Then her gaze swept over me, softening.
Searching.
Asking.
Answering.
That was all it took.
I kissed her.
Gentle at first, testing the edges of something fragile, terrified it might break. Then deeper—need rising like a tide, pulling me under with every shared exhale. She tasted faintly of warm tea, her lips soft but certain as she leaned into me.
The towel slipped from my hands and hit the floor without a sound.
She made a quiet noise—half sigh, half surprise—and it almost unraveled me. I felt her fingers found the waistband of my pants, curling there, pulling me closer, anchoring me to her.
The lantern flickered overhead, shadows shifting across her face, over the curve of her cheek, across the space where my body met hers.
I wasn’t thinking anymore.
I wasn’t remembering.
I was simply feeling—every shiver, every rise of her chest, every silent plea echoing between us.
By the time we moved toward the bed, neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.
We lay down together in a tangle of warm skin and cool cotton, the mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. The river outside faded completely, replaced by the quiet rhythm of her breaths, the rush of my own heartbeat, the faint brush of her fingers against my spine.
In the soft glow of the lantern, with her body curled against mine, everything else—the chaos, the fear, the questions waiting outside this room—fell away.
Until there was nothing left.
Nothing but her.
“Morning,” June mumbled, stretching her arms above her head. Her hair stuck out in a tangled halo, wild and adorable. Then she froze, eyes widening in horror.
“Shit—my breath smells.”
I barked out a laugh, unable to hold it back. She went visibly mortified, clutching the blanket to her chest like it was a shield against humiliation.
“You think I care about that?” I said, my voice still gravelly with sleep.
“Yes, you should,” she grumbled, rolling onto her side to face the wall.
I pushed myself up on an elbow, watching the soft rise and fall of her shoulders. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, painting a soft gold across her bare shoulders. She didn’t seem real. Angelic. Too good for the kind of world I came from.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it—waking up to this every morning. To her hair in my pillow, the sleepy sound of her voice, the warmth of her tucked against me.
A dangerous fantasy.
I reached out, brushing a stray strand behind her ear. “You look beautiful.”
“Liar,” she whispered into the pillow, but the smile in her voice betrayed her.
We lay there in silence, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything we’d said last night and everything we were too afraid to say now. The hum of the old ceiling fan blended with the faint sounds from the streets below, laughter and footsteps drifting up with the river breeze.
When June rolled toward me, her expression had changed—more tender, but shadowed with something heavier.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she said quietly, her voice gentling.
The words hit like a blade I’d already seen coming.
“I know,” I answered.
“You have responsibilities,” she whispered. “Lucy… Jenny…”
I nodded slowly. “They depend on me. If I break the engagement, Lucy loses her family. Her inheritance. Everything. And Jenny… she’s not too stable yet. She needs routine. Support. A home.” I swallowed hard. “I’m the only one who can give them that.”
June’s eyes flickered away, glistening. “What about you, Kai? What do you need?”
“You.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Her breath trembled.
My heart did too.
“I haven’t slept properly in months,” I admitted. “Not without pills. Not without drowning everything out. But last night… I slept.” I exhaled. “I slept because you were beside me.”
She didn’t speak. Her fingers twisted the blanket, knuckles pale.
“Dannie said you’d ruin me,” she whispered.
I let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-pain. “He’s probably right.”
“Then why—” Her voice cracked before she caught herself. “Why did you ask for this date?”
“Because I’m selfish,” I said simply. “Because I wanted one day where it was just you and me. No lies. No obligations. No one else deciding our lives.”
Stillness settled between us—thick, heavy, undeniably real.
Finally, she whispered, “And now?”
I ran a shaky hand through my hair. “Now… we both know what has to happen.”
Her eyes met mine. The ache in them mirrored my own—raw, impossible, lingering.
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. A farewell in disguise.
“You always make everything complicated,” she murmured.
I managed a smile. “It’s my specialty.”
She climbed out of the bed, gathering her clothes from where they’d fallen. Watching her dress felt like a dream dissolve in daylight—beautiful and inevitable painful.
When she was ready, she stood with her hand on the door but didn’t open it.
“Take care of yourself, Kai.”
“You too,” I said quietly.
She gave me one last glance—half smile, half heartbreak—before she slipped out of the room.
I stayed where I was, listening to her footsteps fade down the creaking hallway until the quiet swallowed them whole.
The pillow beside me still cradled the shape of her head. The faint scent of lavender and rain clung to the sheets. It hurt in a way nothing else had.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Three missed calls.
One from Lincoln.
Two from Dannie.
A message blinked at the top:
We need to talk. Now.
I stared at it, the words sharp and heavy, before locking the screen again. I wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
Outside, thunder rolled over the riverbanks, low and distant.
The storm was coming early this year. Fitting.
I didn’t know what awaited me when I returned.
My mother.
Lucy.
Jenny.
Dannie.
Maybe a mess.
Maybe a war.
Maybe a future I wasn’t sure I deserved.
But for the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid.
Because for one night, I had remembered what being alive actually meant.
And if I had to give that up to protect the people I loved…
Then so be it.
Still… deep in my bones, beneath the ache and the longing, I knew this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Thank you for reading Billionaire’s Ruin!
As authors, we feel deeply connected to the characters we write.
Their struggles, their fears, their imperfect choices—they mirror the real ups and downs we all face in life. Happy endings don’t always come easy, not for any of us, and that’s exactly why we write stories in a series: because healing, growth, and love take time.
Thank you for staying on this journey with us.