A hush fell each time the minister spoke—like we were meant to be impressed. Smiles came easily to others, but mine had to be held in place. Laughter stuck behind my teeth, sharp and unwanted. Light dripped from glass flowers above, pooling on tables polished too bright. Bubbles rose in gold-colored drinks, passed without hurry. Power did not speak—it simply leaned against the walls, breathing slowly. Phakin stayed near, always. His fingers pressed just once at the base of my spine, steady as a door held open. He moved among officials like someone remembering lines he wrote himself. A stranger might have seen softness there. But under the fabric, it felt like ink stamped into skin—quiet proof. I was claimed, marked without words. That moment hung still.
Every time he squeezed—lightly, just to make it clear—the old press questions played again inside my head. Bring up the Red Sky failure when you speak to him. Who exactly died because of your father? My smile stayed fixed till my face grew sore, while I traded small talk on architecture with officials' spouses, letting praise slide off without sticking. Ash filled the taste of champagne. Every sip slipped down like deceit disguised as delight. Polished motions carried Phakin through the evening. Introducing me came smoothly, his voice wrapping around my name like a habit. Laughter arrived on cue, timed just right. Trade policies sparked debate across clinking glasses. Then he'd tilt close—suddenly quiet—for words meant to sound secret. Except they never were. Fix your hands. The bracelet isn't a toy. Turn that smile toward her now—the diplomat's spouse. Ease up on the glass. Sip, do not drain. Heat from his breath curled into my ear, crafting closeness. I didn't ask for it. My body answered anyway—skin prickling against its will.
When we got to the top floor, the streets underneath spread out like lines drawn in light and dark. Not one word came during the lift climb; silence stretched wide, although our bodies stayed close. Phakin kept his mouth shut. His eyes avoided mine once the metal slid open. Down the hall he went—steady, precise—as if guided by something unseen toward the rooms on the west side. Behind him, the heavy doors shut hard, the sound bouncing off the walls like a last word. My feet burned inside those tall shoes, standing there in the front hall. A knot sat deep in my chest—one I had ignored too many nights now. No air moved around me, just quiet so dense it weighed on the skin. Returning meant nothing, not while another act played out somewhere down the line. Questions pulled at me, sharp and loud. Had Araya seen what others refused? Was my father's history stained red? Did Phakin carry that anger well before our paths crossed at all?
Bare feet met the hall's marble, smooth and chill, shoes left behind without a thought. Cream walls caught the light here, pale flowers curling awake in vases, quiet elegance. Pretty things. Hollow ones. Closer to the West Wing, breath fogged slightly, edges of shadow biting into the floor like cracks. Smell changed too—petals gave way to dust, wood aged slowly, and smoke curled faintly from glass decanters. Words rose unasked: Narong had said stay out. Shaking started in my fingers when I grabbed it. Safety came into play then.
Out came the doors into a stretch of space so quiet it pulled air from my lungs. Wood lined every wall, deep brown under small lights dripping warm color down to the tiles. Not one photo of relatives hung there. Nothing soft or old-fashioned filled the frames. Blue lines on white sheets covered the surfaces instead—drawings tucked behind glass as if kept for study. My steps stayed slow, pulse knocking harder with each stride, until understanding clicked without warning. The sketches belonged to my father: tall homes, business buildings, shopping centers—all marked with years, places, notes mapping Somchai Vongviphan's work through time. A place that seemed familiar at first, yet carried none of the warmth you'd expect. Each detail sat in silence, placed there by someone who cared too much about order.
Down the hallway, lit by one bright light overhead, sat a little building behind glass. Red Sky Mall. I almost collapsed at the sight. Sun caught every small window, metal framing each piece perfectly—beautiful, yes—but understanding its meaning made it feel like standing before something dead. A wave rose in my gut.
Far off along the hall, a thin line of brightness tugged at my attention. There it was—a doorway cracked open, spilling warmth into shadow. That room belonged to Phakin. Each step forward made my pulse thud harder, too sharp in my ears. Beyond the gap, screens glowed cold; words and numbers rolled without pause. Phakin stayed seated in the worn leather chair—tuxedo pants untouched, his shirt loose and messy. Not far away, a glass container held leftover golden-brown whiskey. His eyes didn't follow the flickering monitors. The blank wall caught his gaze instead.
A patchwork mess covered that wall—corkboard peeling at the edges, paper spilling outward. Photos stuck everywhere, pages torn from files, snippets clipped out, threads in red looping through like roots. At its heart, my father started from a single image. Circling him are shots of me: cap and gown, dust on boots at a job site, hunched over papers in an office running low on hope. Another shot, fresh—a coffee shop, medical invoices fanned across wood grain. A knot rose inside. His eyes had traced every moment.
Out of the dark came his words, cold and low. Spinning fast, I saw him there—Phakin near the window, a drink held tight. Not the polished figure from the party now. Hair wild, shirt unbuttoned, eyes stained with strain. For once, he seemed real, in that raw kind of way that unsettles more than any lie ever could.
"You've been stalking me," I said. Quiet. Accusatory. "How long?"
"Three years." His voice was rough. "Since I had the resources to find the truth. The law wouldn't touch your father. Justice was for sale. So I decided to make my own."
"He isn't a murderer," I said. "He took shortcuts—foolish ones—to save time, not lives. It was an accident."
Before I got the words out, Phakin was already moving. Close now, blocking me in at the doorway—no hands on me, yet it felt like weight pressing down. "He knew the ground wasn't safe, Lalin," he said through tight teeth. Because of choices made to cut costs by ten percent, that's what killed mine. A shake ran through his hand as his thumb grazed my face. Everything will be stripped away from him. You're simply first
A sharp fear jumped, yet beneath it came a colder thing—worn down, edged with risk. Not soft words, not lies anymore. Just that: prove it. Show what you've always said you are
A shadow passed over his features. Just for a moment, nothing moved, only the air humming low. Then he closed the gap—our heads nearly touching, his breathing light against my skin. Words came slowly: "Brave is what you call yourself." A pause. "But you do not see how badly I could bend you." Fingers dug into the back of my neck. The second hand held firm at my hip. Between us, warmth built without warning.
"Break me," I said softly.
A noise came out of him—rough, close to breaking. Head tucked into my shoulder, he trembled as if shrinking from the inside. Tears did not fall, yet something clearly split open. I remained still. My arms stayed around him. Against my chest, his pulse raced, frantic and wild. Something inside gave way when the truth pressed close—he held me, yet I held what little kept him breathing. Not just prisoner and jailer; more like two bodies caught in the same rip current, neither able to let go.
Last came the word "Leave." He stepped away as he spoke, his voice without shape or warmth. Go now, stay gone—those were the unspoken edges of it
Down the hall I walked, his hand's pressure lingering like a shadow. My body moved, though it felt heavy, carrying that mark across the threshold.
A while after, the phone vibrated. It was a number I did not recognize. The screen lit up with words from someone unseen.
Last night, your eyes caught mine. Trapped, maybe. There's a way out—different paths open soon. Noon tomorrow works. That place near the clock tower: Café Kantary. From Kit
My eyes moved from the screen to the West Wing. Not far away, one man aimed to crush me. Meanwhile, someone else held out for help. Suddenly, what I faced wasn't just about staying safe. It came down to who got to hold my life in their hands.
Cliffhanger: What happens next depends on Lalin. If she finds Kit, Phakin might lose control. Staying means more nights like the last—sharp words, colder touches. Running feels impossible, yet her hands won't stop planning it. Every silence now holds a question. Does love grow where anger first took root? Or does it twist into something heavier?