Page 31 of Billionaire’s Ruin

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of lifestyle I ever got to enjoy. Discipline was everything in my line of work. Punctuality, consistency, control—all essential.

As the daughter of a surgeon, molded and trained to follow in his footsteps, my parents had spent years trying to convert me into a morning person. But my body clock had always been stubborn. No matter how many self-help tricks I tried, or how many “early-riser” blogs I read, the start of my days was a battle zone.

I was the kind of person who needed five alarms and still hit snooze like my life depended on it. By the time my brain caught up, adrenaline would take over, and I’d be sprinting around fearing about being late, with a toothbrush dangling from my mouth and a half-finished coffee on the counter.

But today… I felt awake not because I was done resting. I woke up because something hurt.

At first it was just a vague discomfort—the kind that usually wouldn’t stand a chance against my love for staying in bed. But this was different. Sticky skin. A pounding head. A dull ache crawling down my spine. A body that felt like it had been left out in the sun too long.

It took me a moment to realize why.

I wasn’t in bed.

I was no longer dreaming about Kai.

I was sprawled awkwardly across something warm and solid—someone, not something. My arm draped across a chest that wasn’t mine. My cheek pressed against soft fabric that smelled faintly of soap and dampness.

Dannie.

I blinked several times before my brain caught up. With an awkward grunt, I braced one palm against the hard surface and pushed myself up.

“Good morning,” Dannie murmured, his speech still thick from sleep.

“Morning. Did we end up crashing here all night?”

“It seems so.” His reply was far too calm about it, still drifting in that hazy space between dreaming and waking.

“What happened last night?”

The last clear memory I had was Beng leaving and me—against all common sense—trying to drag Dannie off the ground. We’d ended up talking, laughing, the kind of meaningless chatter that fills the spaces between exhaustion and tipsiness. But the rest of it was a blur.

“We must’ve nodded off while talking,” Dannie said, confirming what I already suspected.

“Yes, because you were so drunk last night,” I teased, though part of me meant it. “My body is killing me. I was never really a front sleeper… though apparently I’m flexible that way.”

Truthfully, if I hadn’t been sprawled on top of him, I probably wouldn’t be able to move my upper body at all. There had been a few times in the past—too much wine at a wedding, too little water at a conference dinner—when I’d passed out face-down on my bed and woken up with my neck so stiff a colleague had to jab me with a steroid. One of the few perks of being in the field: quick fixes for your bad decisions.

Dannie chuckled softly. “You were quite wasted yourself.”

“Was I?” My brows knitted together. He couldn’t be serious. I didn’t even like getting drunk. But then I remembered Beng’s endless generosity with the beer, the way he kept topping up my glass before I could protest. I sighed. “I guess that explains the hangover. I feel kinda… gross.”

Dragging myself upright, I glanced around—and immediately wished I hadn’t. The living room seemed like a scene from a low-budget apocalypse film. Plates, empty bottles, and crab shells everywhere. The faint, sweet-sour scent of leftover seafood lingered in the air. Tiny black dots—flies, ants, maybe both—were already helping themselves to what we didn’t finish.

“Eww. The state of this room,” I muttered, rushing into the kitchen to grab a bin. I started gathering up plates and scraps, grimacing. “I could really use a shower,” I announced over my shoulder.

No answer.

When I glanced back, Dannie hadn’t moved. He was still lying there, eyes half-closed, chest barely rising.

That… wasn’t like him.

I frowned, checking the clock on the wall.

10:10 a.m.

Late for him.

Dannie was the kind of person who bounced back from hangovers like they were minor inconveniences.