The message sat in Lingling's deleted folder like a live wire. The debt was never money. – U
She stared at it until the screen dimmed, then locked the phone and slid it under the pillow. Orm's breathing was slow and even beside her, one arm flung across Lingling's waist, fingers curled loosely over the scar on her ribs. The rain had stopped; the city hummed with wet neon.
Lingling didn't sleep.
5:47 a.m. – Kitchen
She brewed coffee strong enough to strip paint. The penthouse was still dark except for the under-cabinet LEDs. Orm appeared in the doorway, barefoot, wearing Lingling's dress shirt from the night before, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
"You're up early for someone who swore we'd sleep until noon," Orm said, voice husky.
Lingling handed her a mug without answering. Orm took it, eyes narrowing over the rim.
"The text." Not a question.
Lingling nodded once. "Urassaya."
Orm set the mug down untouched. "Show me."
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the island while Lingling retrieved the message. Orm read it twice, then opened a new window on her tablet and typed the single letter U into Jet's encrypted search bar.
Results spilled across the screen like blood from a fresh cut.
U → U. Sperbund → U. Holdings Ltd. (Cayman shell, dissolved 48 hrs ago) U → U. Trust (Geneva blind trust, sole beneficiary: Madame Anantachai) U → U. File (encrypted archive, 4.7 GB, uploaded 3 hrs ago to a dead-drop server in Reykjavik)
Jet's auto-note: File self-deletes in 18 hrs. Password required.
Orm's voice was quiet. "She left us a bomb with a countdown."
Lingling's jaw flexed. "Or a confession."
7:30 a.m. – Secure Line to Jet
Jet's face filled the laptop—bleary, hair neon pink today. "Morning, lovebirds. Bad news: the file's layered. Outer shell is a decoy—old Macau footage we already nuked. Inner core's biometric. Needs both your thumbprints. Simultaneously."
Orm frowned. "She wants us to open it together."
"Or watch each other die trying," Jet muttered. "I'm voting not that. But the server's in Iceland. I can't remote it. You'd have to fly."
Lingling was already pulling up private-flight manifests. "Wheels up in two hours."
Reykjavik – 11:02 p.m. Local
The server farm was a brutalist box on the edge of a lava field, wind screaming across black rock. Inside, it smelled of ozone and cold metal. Jet had arranged access through a crypto collective that owed him favors. The room was lit by red emergency strips; the only sound was the low thrum of cooling fans.
A single monitor waited on a steel table. On it: a thumbprint scanner split down the middle—left for Lingling, right for Orm.
Orm rolled her shoulders. "On three?"
Lingling's hand hovered. "If this is a trap—"
"Then we spring it together." Orm's fingers brushed hers. "One."
"Two."
They pressed.
The screen flared white. A video window opened.
Urassaya, but not the polished starlet. This version was gaunt, eyes ringed violet, hair cropped short. She sat in what looked like a concrete cell. No makeup. No glamour.
"If you're watching this, I'm already gone," she said, voice raw. "The debt was never money. It was me. Madame Anantachai bought me when I was seventeen. Acting lessons, auditions, the Hollywood 'big break'—all funded. In exchange, I became her ghost. I seduced targets. I planted evidence. I broke hearts on command."
She leaned closer to the lens. "You, Lingling, were my first assignment. Fall in love. Leave dramatically. Keep you unstable. When your father died, the plan changed. Marry you. Merge the companies. Control Kwong from the inside."
Orm's grip on Lingling's hand turned crushing.
Urassaya's smile was broken. "I fell for you anyway. That wasn't scripted. So I ran. They punished me. Years of it. This file—every contract, every recording, every name—is my suicide note. Use it. Burn them all. I'm sorry."
The feed cut to a folder tree: ANANTACHAI_BLACK_BOOK. Thousands of files. Politicians. CEOs. Celebrities. A ledger of ruined lives.
Then a final line appeared:
Password to unlock: the first lie I ever told you.
Lingling's voice cracked. "Pattaya. The night we met. She said her name was just 'Yaya.'"
Orm typed: YAYA
The archive unlocked.
48 Hours Later – Bangkok
The story broke at dawn, seeded through anonymous drops to every major outlet in Asia. ANANTACHAI SYNDICATE EXPOSED: DECADES OF BLACKMAIL, TRAFFICKING, CORPORATE SABOTAGE.
Madame Anantachai was arrested in Geneva boarding a flight to Dubai. The Kwong merger became the least of anyone's concerns.
Urassaya's body was found in a Reykjavik hotel. Overdose. No note—except the one they'd already seen.
One Month Later – Penthouse Rooftop
The city sparkled below, finally free of storms. Lingling and Orm stood at the new glass railing, a bottle of 1996 Dom Pérignon between them.
Orm raised her flute. "To Urassaya. May she finally be free."
Lingling clinked her glass, eyes on the horizon. "And to us. May we never owe anyone again."
They drank. The bubbles tasted like forgiveness.
Later, in bed, Orm traced the faint scar on Lingling's shoulder. "Still no more ghosts?"
Lingling pulled her close. "Just the ones we choose to keep."
Outside, Bangkok breathed easy for the first time in years.
Inside, two women slept—debt-free, name-clear, hearts whole.