Luna hit send before doubt could get a word in.
The tiny message blinked away into the night and the city's indifferent roar. Three words—that was it—and yet they landed heavier than any confession she'd ever said out loud. She stared at the glass, pulse thudding in her ears, waiting for something. Anything.
One minute. Two. Three.
Bangkok kept on like something alive. Motorbikes sliced past, headlights blotting the dark like restless fireflies; horns jutted through the air. Street stalls hissed and popped, vendors shouted over skewers and frying fat, and neon fought the night with Thai letters and badly translated English. Luna perched on a cold bench outside a 7-Eleven, its fluorescent buzz bathing her face a sickly white. After years here, the city still shifted its moods. Tonight it felt... hostile. Foreign. Unfriendly.
Her phone vibrated.
"Thank you for trusting me. Lumphini Park tomorrow at noon. Come alone. Your life depends on it."
Your life depends on it. The words hit like ice. She tasted metal. What had she just agreed to? Who had she trusted? And why did the decision already feel wrong?
Another buzz. Different number. She didn't need to see the name.
Ethan.
"Please tell me where you are. I'll send a car. No questions. Just safety."
Her thumb hovered. Tell him. Let him come. Let him fold her up in the easy certainty he always offered. But the contract kept scrolling through her head—glossy pages, looping signatures, and clauses that smelled faintly of champagne and lawyers. I fell in love with you, he'd murmured once. Had he meant it? Or was that another line in an arrangement she still couldn't read?
Her head throbbed. She was hungry. Bone-tired. She wanted something plain and warm—soup and a corner to crawl into—neither of which existed right then.
A shadow crossed her knees.
She looked up. A woman in her forties, clothes worn but clean, eyes rimmed with tired kindness, stood there like someone who'd seen worse nights and decided to keep walking anyway.
"You okay, dear?" she asked in Thai, voice soft.
Luna nodded before she could argue. "I'm fine."
The woman didn't believe her. She sat, rummaged in a small cloth bag, and produced sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf and two pork skewers, still warm. She offered one. "Here. Eat."
"I can't pay," Luna blurted, cheeks hot.
"You don't have to." The woman's smile was quick and knowing. "Sometimes people need a hand."
Something brittle inside Luna cracked. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Kindness. She'd handed it out for years—to students, strangers, even to Ethan—with a naive hope it would return. It hadn't always.
"Thank you," she said, taking the food.
They ate in a comfortable quiet that let the city's noise curl around them like a blanket.
"Bad husband?" the woman asked, suddenly, without preamble.
Luna laughed, a sharp sound. "What?"
"My daughter had that look once," the woman said. "A man who promised the moon and then chained it to gold."
"It's complicated," Luna said. She didn't try to unpack the legalities of how affection had been folded into schedules, press photos, and hidden clauses. Some things resist explanation.
"It always is." The woman stood and patted Luna's shoulder. "A cage of gold is still a cage." She walked away before Luna could answer.
Luna chewed slowly, listening to nothing in particular. Married to a billionaire who might love her—or might have bought her in installments. Homeless, exhausted, afraid. The contradictions, stacked up, made her head swim.
Her phone buzzed again. Ethan.
"Luna, please. Just one word. Let me know you're alive."
She typed with deliberate slowness: I'm alive. I need time. Don't follow me. Then she hit send.
The phone rang. Ethan's name filled the screen. She declined. It rang again. Declined. And again. She declined until her thumb hurt.
A message popped up: Ethan: "I'm respecting your space. But I have security watching the city. If you're in danger, they'll intervene. Whether you want them to or not."
The possessive care stung. Which scared her more—his protection or his reach?
Another ping. Marcus.
"I meant what I said. If you need help, call me. No strings attached."
Marcus Tan and "no strings" in the same sentence made her want to laugh, but nothing felt funny anymore.
Battery: 15 percent.
She'd be drifting into silence soon. Really alone, for a while.
She stood, legs stiff, feet sore, and began walking toward the community center where she volunteered—across town, more than an hour on foot, but the only place that still felt neutral.
When she slipped through the side entrance, the center was dark. Lights off, doors locked. She knew the spare-key hiding spot. Inside, the smell of chalk dust and old paper wrapped around her like a familiar coat. She curled up on the small couch in the children's reading room and shut her eyes.
Sleep arrived in short, frayed pieces. Her mind stitched fragments together: fifty million baht, the glossy marriage agreement, Ethan's late-night whisper, and the cold text.
The phone betrayed her again. Five percent.
"I know where you are. My security tracked your phone. I'm not coming. But Luna, that building isn't safe. Please reconsider."
Of course he knew. Ethan Cole had cameras, access, and people who could move through shadows. She turned the phone off. The darkness felt like cover. Exhaustion won.
Sunlight woke her. Children's laughter. A freckled face peered inches away. "Teacher Luna? Why are you sleeping here?"
Luna sat up so fast she almost toppled. "Mai, I—"
"Did you have a sleepover?" Mai asked, delighted.
Porn, the center's director, hovered in the doorway, worry drawn on her face. After explanations that were more half-truth than truth, Porn offered shelter for the day. Luna read stories, painted with the kids, and laughed in small, rusty bursts. For a few hours the world was ordinary. It felt like stealing something simple.
At eleven-thirty Porn pulled her aside. "Someone's here to see you. Her name is Sienna Park."
Cold slid down Luna's spine.
Sienna arrived with a composed calm that made people straighten without realizing it. Elegant, precise—the kind of person who says sorry properly and then tells you hard things. She explained, in a voice too smooth, that the earlier message had been a setup: a fake meeting, a staged fire, and a warning from people who hated Ethan.
Before any of that could settle, Luna's phone buzzed. Ethan: Stay where you are. Something's happening. I'm coming.
Sienna handed her an envelope. Inside: photos, documents, names. One name stopped her cold.
Then the phone rang. Unknown number. A flat, mechanical voice said, "Mrs. Cole. You have something we want. And we have something you'll want back."
At the same moment an email pinged through. A photo is attached. Mrs. Chen—the elderly neighbor who used to water Luna's plants when she was away—was tied to a chair, mouth gagged.
"You have twelve hours," the voice intoned. "Bring us your husband's Singapore files. Or she dies."
The line clicked dead.
The envelope dropped from Luna's hand and slapped the floor. The world narrowed until all she could feel was the cold blade of the choice in front of her.
She wasn't just tangled in other people's lies anymore. She was the target. Her next move would decide who lived and who didn't.
Twelve hours: betray Ethan to save an innocent life, or refuse and watch someone die. Which would you choose?
Cliffhanger:
Luna is given twelve hours to hand over Ethan's hidden Singapore files, knowing that if she refuses, an innocent woman will be killed, forcing her to choose between betraying her husband or becoming responsible for a life lost.