Chapter 8

The taxi ride to Shenton Way felt endless. Grey clouds hung low over Singapore, heavy with the promise of afternoon rain that refused to fall. The air inside the cab was cool and slightly stale, but Nick’s hand remained warm and steady on my thigh the entire journey. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against the thin fabric of my pale yellow sundress — a gesture that should have felt comforting, but instead sent tiny ripples of anxiety through me.

I kept stealing glances at him. He looked perfectly calm, gazing out the window with that quiet confidence I had always admired. The same man who brought me kopi-O kosong every Sunday, who remembered exactly how I liked my chicken rice, who held me so tenderly after I told him about my father. Yet the closer we got to his office, the more my stomach twisted into painful knots.

When we finally stepped into the sleek commercial building, the blast of air-conditioning raised goosebumps along my arms and legs. Uncle Lim at the security counter gave us his usual friendly nod, but today even his smile felt somehow knowing. The lift hummed softly as it carried us up to the eighth floor. Every second felt heavier than the last.

Nick’s office was exactly as I remembered it — cool, orderly, and deceptively professional. The familiar scent of polished wood, paper, and his subtle woody cologne filled the air. His desk was neatly arranged, two monitors glowing faintly. The framed photo of us laughing in Bali sat in its usual place. And there, against the inner wall, stood the tall bookshelf — perfectly aligned, innocent, and terrifying.