Page 35 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Is that so?” I lifted a brow, the sarcasm slipping through despite my best effort. “There’s no scientific proof of that.”

“But it’s true,” she said firmly, as if facts were optional.

I forced a polite expression, but inside I was groaning. She was starting to remind me far too much of my mother. It always amazed me how universal certain archetypes were—the mother who believed in “old wisdom” over science, the one who warned you that drinking something cold would ruin your fertility or that standing too close to the TV would make your eyes fall out.

What was the point of sending both my brother and me to medical school if she still clung to pseudo-science and guilt-tripped us for “not respecting tradition”? I could almost hear her in my head now, high and certain: You’ll understand when you’re older, June. You can’t fool the body—it has its own memory.

Even now, I still couldn’t drink iced water in front of her without getting a lecture about “female problems” and my “future baby.”

“Maybe,” I said finally, in a way that made it clear the topic wasn’t up for debate.

Sometimes agreeing was easier than arguing.

Linda seemed satisfied enough to move on. “What’s next for him?”

“They’re going to give him fluids, antihistamines, and antibiotics for now,” I explained, shifting my weight from one foot to another. “They’ll keep him overnight for observation, just until his temperature stabilizes.”

“Gosh,” she said, frowning, “that’s pretty serious.”

“It’s not that bad, really,” I reassured her, even though I wasn’t entirely convinced myself.

“Is he awake now?”

“He was, briefly,” I said, glancing toward the room. “But he settled down again after the check-up. I think he’s still a little hungover.”

Linda checked the time on her mobile and sighed. “I see. Listen, I have to get going—got to cook lunch and pick up my kid from school.” She rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a business card, pressing it into my palm. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Of course. Thank you so much for everything,” I said sincerely.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied with a dismissive wave. Her expression shifted into something sly and teasing. “For years, I’ve tried to set Mr. Wu up with some nice girls, but he was never interested. Now I know why…”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

Her face opened up, almost girlish in its delight. “I can tell that you really care about him.”

I didn’t even bother to argue. People believed what they wanted to believe, and correcting them only made them dig in deeper.

I offered a polite nod and stayed absolutely still, watching as she waved and hurried down the corridor, her heels clicking briskly against the polished tiles.

When she disappeared through the glass doors, I finally exhaled, realizing how tense my shoulders had become.

The hallway was quiet now—bright, sterile, and echoing with the distant beeps of medical monitors. I stood there for a moment, unsure whether to go back to Dannie or to grab a coffee just to steady myself.

Then I heard it.

“June. June Bennet?”

A crisp, unfamiliar woman’s voice sliced through the air behind me.

I froze, turning by degrees. No one here should’ve known my full name. No one. Yet someone spoke it.

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t tell if I was more curious or afraid.

8

June

Stephanie Stevens.