Morning came slowly; Phakin had already vanished before it did. Beyond the glass walls, daylight looked faded, almost unsure; below stretched Bangkok, blurred like an old photograph warped by heat. The high-up apartment stayed quiet as the streets hummed below, untouched by what had passed. No message was left behind—just space where he'd been. A scrap of paper, clean and crisp, rested where meals usually get prepped. Not handwritten. Not casual. Printed words, sharp like policy briefs his team always drafted. Plans tied to Chonburi. Return time was pushed past midnight. Stay put unless guards are present—no exceptions written between the lines. Missing any name at the bottom. Lacking softness. Cold instruction, dropped into place without ceremony.
I watched till the words smudged into shapes. Fingers gripped the edge of the page, stiff with silliness. Behind my thoughts, the party throbbed—his palm on my hip, his lips dipping below my ear while facing the one he despised, yet with just a flicker, he yielded. Not a trace remained of that Phakin—wild, shifting, edged with risk—by dawn. In place sat another entirely: quiet, carving borders like walls out of habit.
Midway through the day, quiet began gnawing under my skin. Not supposed to feel trapped here—this high-up space meant safety—but instead, walls closed in, glass and steel mirroring a face that seemed misplaced. Walking without aim, legs moving before thoughts caught up, carried me toward the hall with one shut entrance. He once said, "Stay out. Said it was sealed. Meant only for him. Yet wanting to peek hums beneath ribs like a loose wire sparking. Even if I was just something moved around in his bitter match of control, I deserved sight of the whole setup.
For just a moment, the heavy wood held firm, sighing once under pressure before swinging inward. Into the gap I stepped, easing the panels shut behind me without sound. Heavy stillness pressed against my skin—the kind found in spaces sealed off from life. Blueprints hung proudly on one wall, models stood stiff beneath glass, and awards lined shelves like soldiers obeying orders he'd carved into law. My path led past it all, straight toward the back room where light fell low.
That scent filled the air just like certain spots carry the hint of coming storms—wood from closets, pages left too long in drawers, something sharp that prickled the back of my neck. A heavy desk ruled the space—not messy, not soft, everything squared off and untouched. The monitor stayed dark. Locked down tight. So I turned to shelves instead: files bound shut, papers stamped official, and colored pamphlets pushing broken ground as if there were better days ahead. Neat rows. Carefully placed. All displayed—the clear kingdom built by someone who reshaped streets to fit what he wanted them to be.
That was when the folder showed up.
Heavy silence pressed down as I picked it up. Not thick, just thin—hidden under stone, out of sight. Marble held it in place, cold and solid. Familiar words jumped forward without warning. Reports about what happened at Red Sky Mall long ago. His name was there again, printed bold, impossible to ignore. Flickering through pages, I chased errors like shadows at dusk, each line a weight pressing harder. Still, further on, fingers shook—unwilling, sudden—a quiet break in the rhythm of reading.
The handwriting stood out—tight, careful letters. Nothing like Dad's messy writing. A name at the bottom: Lead Inspector Somchai. Near the middle of the page, one phrase was gouged into the paper with a pen, pressed until fibers frayed: The foundation shift came after a blast below, linked to nearby work digging under city streets. Wasn't the building giving way on its own? Something outside did it.
I stopped breathing. Could it be an explosion? Not a word about a subway job, though the news—the whole town—ranted on about shortcuts and hunger for cash. The tale they spun was tidy: ethics gone, one man tumbling down. Page after page slipped through my fingers. Then came the slip of paper: payment confirmed, five hundred thousand dollars. A week after the final report, payment went to Inspector Somchai. Who sent it? An entity I'd never seen before: Emerald Peak Holdings.
"What are you doing, Lalin?"
A chill ran through me when that voice spoke. My heart just froze mid-beat.
Spinning around, the folder dropped—pages flew everywhere on the smooth floor, fluttering as something spooked. There he was, filling the doorway, making walls feel closer than before. His return wasn't expected just yet. Something told me he shouldn't be here. A coat draped over one arm, his tie half undone, his gaze locked onto what lay scattered below me. Anger made him seem taller.
"You lied to me," I said before I could soften it. "You told me it was my father. You said he killed your parents to save money."
Foot by foot, he came, each movement careful. Inches from my face, his dark shape blocked the light, then lifted a single sheet that lay at our feet.
"I told you the truth as the world knows it," he said, voice flint-hard.
"You know this exists," I snapped, lunging for the folder. "You know, there was an explosion. You know the inspector was paid to bury it. If my father didn't cause the collapse, then everything you've done to me is built on a lie."
Bare teeth. Phakin's jaw moved as if chewing air. My arms were caught in his grip, firm but not harsh, pulling me upward. Then he tilted my chin, eyes locking onto mine.
"Emerald Peak Holdings was a subsidiary of your father's firm," he said, the cold in his voice deepening. "He didn't just let the mall collapse. He paid to erase the real cause and redirect the blame so he could collect insurance. I spent five years following that money. It circles him every time."
"No," I said, breathing small. "He's reckless. He's arrogant. But he's not that."
Backed into silence, he turned sharply. Words spilled fast—then vanished like smoke. A palm hit wood, holding weight no one saw. Power cracked open, showing bone instead of armor.
A sudden move brought me near. There, against his back, my hand found its place. Tension locked his body the moment skin met skin.
"If you're so sure," I said, quieter now, "why keep this here? Why live with it every day?"
He turned slowly, face inches from mine, as if checking a mirror he feared. "Because I needed to hate you," he admitted, the confession breaking on the last syllable. "It made things easier. Easier to use you as a tool than to see you as a person."
One moment, his fingers touched my face, soft like he forgot how hard the world could be. Yet those words came slowly, almost caught in his throat. What stayed behind wasn't comfort—it was doubt wearing a quiet voice. Not belonging? That scared him more than danger ever did
"I'll find the truth," I said, steadier. "If my father did this, I wouldn't hide him. But if Emerald Peak is the real monster, then everything between us changes."
Nothing came out of his mouth. A touch on my cheek, light as a page marker slipped between sheets, was all I got. "Lies never broke things half as much as the truth does," he told me.
Down among the loose sheets, he walked out. Kneeling there, fingers tracing one flat surface, my eyes caught the name: Emerald Peak Holdings, bold at the top. Cliffhanger: A sharp chill rose inside me then—not fear, not yet—just the quiet crackle of what might come.
Lalin moves quietly, chasing paper trails through shadowed corners of finance. One name keeps surfacing—Emerald Peak Holdings—its roots deep, its pulse steady. Not some forgotten shell but a living network, breathing behind closed doors. Power flows along its threads, tied tightly to one figure. That man pulls strings across Phakin's world, unseen yet everywhere. The link snaps into place when least expected.