The Gulf of Thailand was glass-calm, the kind of stillness that felt earned. The yacht—Siren's Mercy—cut a lazy arc through the water, engine humming low, the only sound besides the soft clink of ice in their glasses. Lingling leaned against the teak rail, shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, hair wild from salt and wind. Orm sat cross-legged on the cushioned bench, a silk sarong knotted at her waist, sketching the horizon in charcoal on a small pad.
Neither had spoken in twenty minutes. They didn't need to.
The silence was new. Not the brittle kind that had lived between them before Urassaya, before Mek, before the debts and the blackmail and the war rooms. This was the silence of two people who had survived the same fire and come out holding hands.
Orm shaded a cloud, then looked up. "You're staring."
"I'm cataloging," Lingling corrected. "Every freckle you got today. For science."
Orm snorted, but her cheeks warmed. She set the sketchpad aside and crawled across the bench, straddling Lingling's lap without ceremony. The sarong slipped; Lingling's hands found the bare skin of her thighs like they belonged there.
"We should stay out here forever," Orm murmured against her mouth. "No boardrooms. No ghosts. Just this."
Lingling kissed her slow, tasting salt and champagne. "Tempting. But the merger closes in three days. And you still haven't picked a title."
Orm pulled back, mock-offended. "Co-CEO has a ring."
"You hate sharing."
"I share you," Orm said, nipping Lingling's lower lip. "That's enough sacrifice."
A soft buzz from the salon interrupted them. The satellite phone. Only one person had the number.
Lingling sighed. "P'Fah."
Orm slid off her lap, knotting the sarong again. "Tell her we're dead. Or divorced. Or both."
But Lingling was already moving, barefoot across the warm deck. She answered on speaker.
"Bad news," P'Fah said without greeting. "The Anantachais didn't just fold. They vanished. Madame flew to Geneva last night. Private jet. The estate's empty. Staff paid off and gone."
Orm's brow furrowed. "That's good, isn't it? Debt's erased. Clause dissolved."
"It's too clean," P'Fah replied. "Jet found a shell corp in the Caymans. Transferred the full debt amount—plus interest—to an account in your name, Lingling. Offshore. Untraceable. Looks like you paid it willingly."
Lingling went very still. "They're framing me for money laundering."
"Exactly. If the SEC digs, it's a paper trail straight to you. Prison time. Merger voided. Kwong Enterprises seized."
Orm's voice was deadly calm. "How long?"
"Forty-eight hours before the transfer pings their radar. Maybe less."
Lingling ended the call. The wind had picked up; the yacht rocked gently.
Orm spoke first. "They want us to run."
"Or beg," Lingling said. "Either way, they win."
Orm turned, eyes sharp. "Then we don't run. We hunt."
36 Hours Later – Zurich
They flew commercial. No trace. Fake passports courtesy of Jet's less-than-legal contacts. Lingling wore a baseball cap and glasses; Orm, a blonde wig and a scowl. They looked like tourists. They moved like assassins.
Madame Anantachai was staying at the Baur au Lac, penthouse suite, under the name "Mme. Dubois." Jet had hacked the hotel's reservation system. P'Fah had bribed a bellhop. Dao—the accountant—had traced the Caymans account to a private bank two streets over.
The plan was simple: confront, record, flip.
They waited in the lobby bar. Orm sipped a negroni she didn't taste. Lingling watched the elevator like a hawk.
At 9:12 p.m., Madame descended. Alone. Black suit, pearls, cane tapping marble. She didn't see them until Orm slid into the seat across from her.
"Evening, Khun Ying," Orm said in perfect Thai. "We need to talk about your retirement plan."
Madame's eyes flicked to Lingling, who now stood behind her, blocking escape. "You're bold, coming here."
"You're sloppy," Lingling replied. "Leaving a trail a child could follow."
Madame smiled, thin. "You think you can threaten me? In Switzerland?"
Orm placed a small device on the table. A recorder. Already live-streaming to Jet's server. "We're not threatening. We're offering. Walk away. Delete the Caymans account. Sign a confession—quietly. Or we release everything. Your voice authorizing the debt transfer. The shell corps. The laundering. All of it."
Madame's cane tapped once. "And if I refuse?"
Lingling leaned in. "Then you spend your golden years in a Thai prison. Extradition's a bitch."
A long beat.
Madame reached into her purse. Orm tensed—but it was only a pen. She signed a single sheet Dao had prepared. A full release. The debt nullified. The account dissolved.
"You're more like your father than you know," Madame said, sliding the paper across. "Ruthless when cornered."
Lingling took it. "I learned from the best."
Back in Bangkok – 72 Hours Later
The SEC investigation opened and closed in a day. "Erroneous transfer," they called it. The Anantachais were "unreachable for comment." The merger sailed through.
The penthouse smelled of lemongrass and rain. Orm stood at the window, watching storm clouds gather over the Chao Phraya.
Lingling came up behind her, arms around her waist. "It's really over this time."
Orm turned in her arms. "You believe that?"
"I believe in us."
They kissed, slow and deep, the kind that tasted like relief. Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, the aquarium glowed.
Later, in bed, Orm traced the scar on Lingling's shoulder—an old Muay Thai injury. "No more ghosts?"
Lingling caught her hand, pressed it to her heart. "Just you."
The storm broke. Rain lashed the windows. They slept tangled together, the city finally, truly quiet.
But in the dark, Lingling's phone buzzed once. A single message from an unknown number:
The debt was never money. – U
She deleted it without waking Orm.
Some ghosts, she decided, could wait until morning.