Billionaire, I Am Not Your Wife! novel Chapter 116

Chapter 105: Meeting Durian Kwan
Sedona’s POV
I was in the middle of losing an argument about oranges when the door opened gaining my attention.
Clam
It wasn’t a serious argument, not really-Dante had brought a fruit arrangement that morning along with the usual food,that he wanted me to try, since he wanted to be mixing up the varieties and I’d made the mistake of mentioning that I found oranges difficult to eat because the smell during treatment triggered something unpleasant, and he’d immediately begun constructing a case for why the specific variety he’d brought was different from the oranges I was thinking of, which was the kind of argument that had no real stakes and was therefore the best kind, because we were just arguing about it because it felt funny to do and was not heated in any way, not like the arguments with Logan
“The acidity profile is completely different,” he was saying enthusiastically, his hands moving dramatically, his eyes on mine, leaning forward with the particular earnestness he deployed when he believed he was right and found the other person’s resistance intellectually interesting as well.
“You’re thinking of navel oranges. These are blood oranges. It’s like saying you don’t like apples because you don’t like pears.”
“They’re both citrus,” I said. “The smell is-”
“The smell is different.”
“Dante.”
“Try one piece. One piece, and if it triggers anything/I will personally remove all citrus from this room and never mention oranges again in your presence.”
“That’s a very specific promise.”
“I’m a specific person.”
“You’re an annoying person.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He held out a small segment with the patience of someone who had decided the outcome and was simply waiting for reality to catch up as he knew that I would have to give in and try it, even if it is for the sake of proving him wrong.
“One piece.”
I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought of his blood orange taxonomy, and the door opened.
I expected my mother. She’d gone to collect coffee from the better machine on the second floor, the one she’d discovered in week two and had since made her exclusive supplier, and she’d been gone long enough that I’d started to think she’d gotten into a conversation with someone-my mother was actually not capable of waiting for coffee without making a friend.
It was not my mother.
13
Meeting Duke wan
Clas
It was Cameron, which I recognized first-the height of him, the specific way he moved, familiar since childhood. But Cameron was moving differently than usual, staggering a bit, and uneven on his feet and the reason for this became clear immediately because he was being assisted by a man I didn’t recognize -tall, lean, with a face that managed to look both amused and long-suffering simultaneously, which was a specific combination associated with people who spent significant time managing someone they found both exasperating and worth it.
Cameron looked at me from the doorway with the expression of someone who had been hoping to arrive without scrutiny and had understood immediately that this was not going to happen.
“Before you say anything,” he said.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“I was drunk.” He made his way to the chair with more care than he usually needed, the careful navigation of someone working with a system that had been comprehensively subjected to alcohol and had not yet fully recovered. “Currently I’m in the recovery phase.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“It’s “He looked at the window, at the light. “Yes. It is.” He settled into the chair with the specific relief of someone who’d been vertical longer than they’d wanted to be. “Hello, Sedona.”
“Hello, Cameron.” I looked at the man who’d helped him in, who was now standing near the door with the expression of someone who’d decided the best position in the room was one that gave them a clear view of everything. “I don’t know you.”
“Durian Kwan,” he said, with the ease of someone accustomed to introducing himself in situations that didn’t entirely make sense but was used to it, not at all shy or waiting for Cameron to lead the introductions like most people would.
“I run Durian Limited. Cameron’s been a friend of mine for-” He glanced at Cameron. “How long now?”
“A long time,” Cameron said, without looking up.
“A long time indeed.” Durian looked back at me with an expression that contained what I could only describe as restrained delight, the look of someone in possession of information they were enjoying very much. “He talks about you constantly. It’s nice to finally have a face to put to the stories.”
“He talks about me?”
“Constantly.” Durian pulled up the second spare chair and sat down with the ease of someone settling in for something.
“The swimming incident when you were twelve. The time you put a garden snake in his school bag. The junior nationals.” A pause, in which his expression shifted to something more genuine. “He was very proud of you at the nationals. Even when he was pretending to be too cool to be proud.”
I looked at Cameron, who had closed his eyes and appeared to be focusing on something internal.
“Cameron,” I said.
“Mm.”
Meeting Duiwan “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
Claim
“You’re being brought to my hospital room at eleven in the morning by someone I’ve never met, and you appear to have had a significant amount to drink.”
“I had a moderate amount to drink.”
“He had an immoderate amount to drink,” Durian said pleasantly.
“Thank you, Durian. Really..thank you.” Cameron said with a tone of sarcasm and disbelief.
“Anytime.”
I looked at Durian, who looked back at me with the specific openness of someone who was going to enjoy this conversation. I looked at Cameron, who had the posture of a man who was sincerely hoping the conversation would move on.
Dante, who had been sitting quietly through all of this with the blood orange still held out and the expression of someone watching something develop that he found interesting, set the orange segment down and leaned back in his chair with the comfortable patience of a spectator who’d decided the entertainment had arrived.
“Why did you drink?” I asked Cameron.
“Stress.”
“What kind of stress?”
“Work stress.”
“Cameron.” I used the voice I’d developed over a lifetime of being his sister, the one that communicated I was not accepting the surface answer and he was welcome to try again. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” he said again, with less conviction this time.
“He’s nursing a broken heart,” Durian said.
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