Nuong sat up straight on the couch, legs crossed neatly, pencil gripped tight in her hand. Her eyes flicked between the textbook in front of her and the man who sat across from her, calm and polished in a crisp white shirt. Pisal. Always gentle, always polite—yet intimidating in how effortlessly smart he seemed.
"I'm sorry," she said, biting her lip. "Was it… 'verb to be' or just 'to be'?"
Pisal smiled, patient as ever. "Just 'to be.' You're doing well, Nuong. No need to rush."
She glanced down at her notebook. Jackson had already spoiled her by calling her his daughter. And now Pisal—his student—was her tutor. It felt… strange. Surreal.
Jackson had personally requested Pisal to be her English teacher, claiming he trusted no one else. "She's precious to me," he said with a rare softness. "I want someone who will teach her with patience. And heart."
So here they were, in Jackson's sunny living room, books spread out on the coffee table, and Nuong trying her hardest to remember past participles.
She looked up and frowned slightly. "Do I sound stupid?"
Pisal paused, then shook his head gently. "Not at all. You sound like someone who's learning. That takes courage. You quit school to help others, remember? That's something to be proud of."
Nuong's cheeks flushed with surprise. She hadn't expected praise. Or kindness. Not from someone who looked so… perfect.
A soft knock on the open door made them both turn.
Jackson peeked in, arms crossed, leaning casually. "How's my favorite English class going?" His teasing grin was in full effect.
Nuong laughed, tossing her pencil gently onto the table. "Your daughter is struggling, Father."
He beamed at the word Father—still not used to it, but loving it all the same.
"She's doing well," Pisal added, standing. "She needs a break, though. Her focus is drifting."
"Mine too," Jackson said dramatically, holding up a cup of tea. "I've been thinking about grammar so hard my tea went cold."
Nuong giggled again, the warmth of the household settling deep into her bones. For the first time in years, she felt like a child again—safe, protected, and loved.
Pisal gathered the books. "Let's take a short walk. Fresh air helps memory, sometimes."
"Teacher's orders," Jackson chimed in. "You're dismissed for now, young lady."
She mock-saluted both of them before skipping out of the room, her heart light.
Jackson turned to Pisal as the door shut behind her.
"You're a good teacher," he said softly.
Pisal gave a small nod. "She's a good student."
For a while, they stood in silence, listening to the quiet sound of laughter down the hallway—Nuong, playing with the housekeeper's cat.
"She deserves peace," Jackson said after a moment. "Whatever it costs."
Pisal looked at his mentor and simply said, "She's lucky to have you."
Jackson's smile didn't fade, but his eyes—his tired, beautiful eyes—glimmered with something deeper.
"Maybe," he whispered. "But I think I'm the lucky one."
The morning sunlight spilled through the glass windows of Jackson's living room, lighting up the quiet space with a golden warmth. Nuong had just finished helping the housekeeper fold some clothes when the doorbell rang.
She wiped her hands on her apron and trotted over. When she opened the door, her breath caught.
Standing there was Dalis.
Gone was the terrified girl she once had to protect in a dim and dangerous place. In front of her now was someone calmer, but her eyes—those eyes still held shadows. Deep ones.
Dalis blinked first. "Nuong…"
Nuong stared, mouth parted, unable to find her voice. And then, slowly, Dalis stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.
It wasn't a tight hug. It was hesitant. Soft. But it held meaning.
"I never got to thank you," Dalis whispered. "For saving me."
Nuong's arms finally moved, returning the hug. "You were scared. I was scared, too."
They pulled apart gently, just enough to look at each other.
"You were expelled," Dalis said, brows lowering. "I'm sorry. It's my fault."
"No!" Nuong shook her head quickly. "It's no one's fault. Teacher Maly didn't want to do it… but she was pressured by the sponsors."
Dalis's eyes dimmed. "I… I asked Piseth if you could stay with us. But he said no."
Nuong looked down, not surprised. "He hates me. I understand."
"No," Dalis said firmly. "He doesn't. He's just… scared to show kindness sometimes. But I'm glad you found someone."
Her eyes wandered past Nuong and into the house. "Doctor Jackson… is he nice to you?"
Nuong's lips curled upward into a bright smile, full of warmth and tears. "He's… amazing. He's my father now."
Dalis's lips parted in awe. "Your father?"
Nuong nodded, and her voice trembled. "He said… he wanted to be my father. And I've never… I've never had someone say that to me before. Not like that."
Dalis stepped inside as Nuong led her by the hand. They sat down on the couch like two sisters sharing a secret.
"Sometimes," Dalis whispered, "I still think about that night. About the gun. About you standing in front of me like that."
Nuong reached out and took her hand. "Sometimes I think about it, too. And I'm just glad we both survived."
They sat there for a long time in silence—comfortably, like the storm had passed.
Finally, Dalis smiled softly. "Do you think we can be friends now?"
Nuong blinked at her, eyes stinging with sudden emotion. "I was hoping you'd say that."
And they both laughed.
Some bonds, forged through fire, are stronger than anything else.
His Excellency's Shadow…
The lavish hotel suite overlooked the skyline of Los Angeles, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. The chandelier sparkled overhead, but the man seated beneath it cast no light.
Sem Sokun sat in silence, his tailored suit crisp, a glass of red wine untouched beside him. The television played a local Cambodian news segment in the background—reports of rising support for orphanages, and a brief mention of his most recent donation. His face, in the footage, was smiling. Gentle. Admirable.
But now, that same face was frozen in absolute calm, his eyes dark and unreadable as he held the phone to his ear.
"Is it done?" he asked, voice steady, low.
A pause.
He turned slightly toward the balcony, as if to distance himself from the light of the room.
"I don't want her name in anyone's mouth. I don't want a whisper about the girl or my daughter. Understand?"
Another pause. His fingers drummed once against the armrest.
"Make it clear," he said slowly, deliberately. "Don't show any track."
Then, the call ended. No goodbyes. No farewells.
He sat for another minute, expression still, his wine untouched. Then, he stood. He walked to the window, watching the American city pulse with life beneath him. To the world, he was His Excellency—the philanthropist, the hero, the beacon of hope.
But behind the title, in the silence of a distant hotel room, he was something far more dangerous.
And he had no intention of returning to Cambodia until everything was… perfectly in place.
A line clicks.
The call from His Excellency Sem Sokun was sharp, calculated. "Make it clear," he said. "Don't show any track."
The person on the other end—unseen, unnamed—paused for a breath, then answered in a cold, quiet voice. "Understood."
Far away, in the dark jungles of Ratanakiri, another phone rang. An elderly man, calm yet stern, picked it up with weathered hands.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. San Sambath," came the reply. "Your son has been moved. He'll be free before sunrise."
Sambath's eyes narrowed. "No matter how much it costs, I want my son safe."
The call ended, and the myths grew louder.
Locals whispered, "Ma is untouchable."
Every time he's arrested, he slips through like a ghost. Not even the law can hold him.
No one truly knew the name San Sambath, not even Sokun—his own brother—who believed Sambath had perished long ago.
But Sambath lived, and he protected his son with the patience of a serpent… and the reach of a godfather.