Wearing a black tank top and light denim shorts, Maggie Li stood there, looking at him with a bright, lively gaze.
"You're still up?" Claire asked.
"Oh, uh, I just finished cooking and came out to toss some trash," Maggie replied, flustered, pointing awkwardly at a trash bin that was miles away.
Claire didn't notice anything odd. He leaned casually against the fence by Maggie's front door, looking a bit bored and saying nothing for a while.
"Wanna come in for some food? We're neighbors, and I just made dinner," Maggie offered.
"Sure!" Claire didn't hesitate, stepping toward the door before she even finished speaking. His quick agreement left Maggie momentarily stunned.
Inside, Claire made himself at home. He slipped on a pair of disposable slippers with ease and pulled a document from his pocket, placing it gently on Maggie's dining table.
"Where's Michelle?" he asked, noticing her absence.
Maggie, carrying dishes from the kitchen, replied, "She had to leave for a shoot."
Meanwhile, in Iowa, Michelle Monaghan sneezed on her couch. Grabbing a tissue from a nearby box, she wiped her nose and muttered, "I knew it! Ditching your best friend for a guy? That's your true colors, Maggie."
After another loud sneeze, Michelle tossed the used tissue in a perfect arc toward the trash can—already overflowing with tissues.
Back in Hawaii, Maggie set a steaming clay pot rice in front of Claire, along with a drink. "Tch, I had your clay pot rice before, but eating it again, it's still so authentic!" Claire said, surprised, after taking a big bite.
"Your cooking's not bad either," Maggie said. "That dish you made the other day was great. Michelle even said she'd love to have it again before she left."
"Mmph," Claire mumbled, his mouth stuffed. Maggie couldn't make out what he said. Sitting across from him, she occasionally added side dishes to his plate. "You got back pretty late today. If you're free, come home earlier next time. I'll make you some noodles—they're amazing."
Claire, wolfing down his food, suddenly choked. Maggie hurried behind him, patting his back gently and handing him the drink she'd prepared. He downed it in one go.
"Is this alcohol?" Claire asked, wide-eyed.
Maggie's big, watery eyes darted nervously as she stammered, "Uh, it's fine. It's low-alcohol. I've been drinking it a lot lately. No big deal."
Hearing this, Claire took another big gulp and let out a satisfied burp. "Hey, it's actually pretty good."
After clearing his throat, he happily licked his lips and dove back into the clay pot rice. Maggie, instead of returning to her seat, pulled up a stool next to him, occasionally refilling his drink or adding more side dishes.
"Why aren't you eating?" Claire asked.
"Go on, eat up, don't worry about me," she replied.
When Claire spoke twice without a response, he glanced at her. Maggie's face was flushed as she piled more food into his bowl. Then he noticed a fresh burn on the back of her left hand.
Slowing down, Claire grabbed her hand gently, examining it. "Look at you, still not a pro in the kitchen, huh? I'm not too busy lately. I'll teach you how to cook. Just a few days, and you've already got a big blister like this."
But Maggie was lost, staring dreamily at Claire's profile. As he carefully tended to her burn, he glanced at her and saw her eyes closed, her long lashes trembling. Whether it was an illusion or not, Maggie, who'd been at a slight distance, was suddenly leaning closer, her lips nearing his, her arms somehow wrapping around his neck.
"Mmph—"
"The cotton swabs are in my bedroom. Wanna come grab them? My hand's kinda hurting," Maggie said softly.
Thud. Something heavy hit the mattress in Maggie's room. With a click, the bright villa dimmed.
The full moon over Hawaii cast a soft glow through Maggie's bedroom window, illuminating a bedside table where a burned hand gripped tightly. A copy of the Manchester Evening News lay there, its headline clear in the moonlight: "Billionaire Bench Player: Ronaldo Defends, Rooney Clarifies Rumors."
The article detailed Claire's discovery by Sir Alex Ferguson and his standout moments in Manchester United's youth academy. At the end, it quoted a conversation with Claire's teammates:
"Everyone talks about Claire's strengths. So, gentlemen, what are his weaknesses?"
Ronaldo: "Well, he's terrible with alcohol. A little booze, and he's done."
Bowles: "The scariest thing about Claire is he passes out after a sip but insists he can drink."
Rooney: "After we beat Chelsea, we had some beers in the dorm. I hadn't even started, and Claire was already puking his guts out."
Every word was highlighted with a fluorescent marker.
Time passed—how long, no one knew. The burned hand suddenly let go of the bedside table, and a moment later, it brushed the newspaper to the floor.
---
Delia had noticed something off about Claire lately. Not only was he eating and drinking at the neighbor's every night, but he'd also started bringing his female neighbor along for his morning workouts. Her voice had turned oddly hoarse, too. Delia, ever kind, had given her some cold medicine, but the next day, the neighbor's voice was even worse.
Luckily, Delia had her own busy schedule, shuttling between LA for reports and keeping an eye on Claire in Hawaii. With Costa Mayor's workload piling up, Delia finally got a break from babysitting Claire.
Today, after class, Claire didn't rush home. Feeling his fitness slipping after too many "good days," he opted for a jog. Morning workouts were one thing, but nightly "exercise"? Even a guy like him couldn't keep up.
Jogging through Honolulu's streets, Claire felt a wave of familiarity, the Asian faces around him reminding him of home.
On the way from the University of Hawaii to the Diamond Head villa area, Claire passed through a new light industrial zone. Hawaii's economy leaned on four pillars: tourism, military, port shipping, and sugar. Similar to Mauritius, Hawaii thrived thanks to wealthy backers.
The zone was dotted with small sugar processing plants and factories. But something caught Claire's attention: the streets were nearly empty. It was 4 p.m., and by Hawaii's work schedule, these factories should've been done for the day. If not, they'd be paying workers triple overtime. In the U.S., every factory, big or small, dealt with unions—organizations that could bleed you dry if things went south.
Curious, Claire stopped at a factory called "Hawaii Sugar." No surprise there—90% of Hawaii's sugar factories shared that name. He knocked on the security office door, but no one answered. Inside, workers were playing cards, unsupervised.
Sneaking closer, Claire was suddenly shoved by a burly man. "Hey, kid! You here to gamble with Roland's crew?"
"Gamble?" Claire muttered, quickly piecing it together. Underground casinos were big in the U.S., some raking in profits rivaling small public companies.
But he played dumb. "Isn't this a sugar factory? Why's it a casino? I was hoping to pick up a part-time job."
The crowd burst out laughing.
"Look, another one of Roland's recruits!"
"Haha, you don't know? Roland got scammed by those brokers and went bankrupt!"
"Bankrupt?" Claire frowned instinctively, his expression mirroring what the gamblers saw as a naive victim "pleading for help."
"Doesn't his face remind you of Roland when he got conned?" one laughed. "Back when those investment reps came, Roland was all high and mighty. But he got greedy, took out a loan with his dog's name to buy property for investments."
"Now? HSBC rejected his loan two days ago. This factory's about to be snatched up by those bloodsuckers!"
The gamblers seemed to relish Roland's downfall, some drunkenly mimicking him soliciting on the street with a cardboard sign.
Leaving the factory, Claire's unease grew. A bank rejecting a factory owner's loan was unheard of, but HSBC pulling the plug at this moment could only mean one thing: the U.S. real estate market was about to crash.
To confirm, Claire visited several other factories using the same approach. When he saw HSBC employees sealing one up, he pulled out his phone and made a call.
"Sell my Apple stock. Today."
On the other end, Maggie Pate checked the market. Seeing the healthy trend, he started to argue, but Claire cut him off. "Sell. Now. I'm worried things might shift if we wait."
In the U.S., not all investment brokers were as glamorous as TV portrayed. Many were rookies with no clients, pounding the pavement to build a base. Years ago, it was simple: make a client money in month one, and by month two, their friends would come knocking.
This industrial zone was likely dominated by an HSBC investment branch. While some small factories were still running, Claire saw regret and frustration on their owners' faces.
He was certain their investments had tanked, and HSBC had spotted something—otherwise, they wouldn't have stopped lending.