Page 36 of Billionaire’s Ruin

Or was it Stephanie Soon now?

The name felt foreign after all these years, and for a moment I could only stare. Strawberry-blond hair caught the fluorescent glow, an unexpected flash among the passing blur of darker heads. She seemed taller than I remembered, or maybe time had exaggerated the difference. A white coat hung perfectly over her lean frame, blue scrubs visible underneath. No doubt about it—this was her world now. She was a doctor here.

For a heartbeat, I froze, torn between disbelief and a bubbling sense of joy that bordered on relief. The universe had a funny way of throwing old ghosts at you when you least expected it. I hadn’t seen a familiar face in months, and now—this.

“Oh my God, Stephy, is it really you?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

She turned, her eyes widening, and her lips lifting into that same bright expression I remembered from our early years. There was a new fullness to her cheeks, and the gentle curve of her belly explained the added weight she carried so effortlessly. She radiated a glow—part quiet happiness, part tiredness of someone carrying both a life and a workload on her shoulders.

“Yes, it’s me.” Stephanie’s words came out softer than I remembered. We hugged out of instinct, though her belly curved between us, turning our usual tight embrace into something careful and tender. Still, the warmth didn’t fade.

“I know, I know.” A teasing twist touched her mouth. “Two months left—well, eight and a half weeks. It feels endless.”

“Congratulations,” I said sincerely, still marveling at how life had changed for both of us.

“You work here?”

“Yes. OB-GYN.”

Of course she did. It made sense. Back in med school, Stephanie was always torn between following her father’s legacy in cardiac surgery or listening to her heart—which, ironically, led her to women’s health. It came back to me now that she said she wanted to help bring life into the world. She’d found her calling after all.

“That’s amazing,” I smiled. “How’s Steven?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

A small, awkward pause settled between us. The last time we joked about Steven was over his last name—Stevens. If he had ever taken hers, he’d have been Steven Stevens. She’d beamed then, insisting it was fate.

“He’s fine. Same old.” The reply was brisk, her gaze flicking to her phone. “Want to grab a drink? I have a thirty-minute break.”

“Sure.”

We made our way toward a vending machine tucked near the staff lounge. I watched her move through the motions—tap, swipe, beep—the machine humming to life as it brewed our coffees.

No barista, no small talk, no forced smiles. Just a sleek piece of technology doing exactly what it was told. I almost envied the simplicity.

Maybe I should get one of these for the clinic, I thought absently. It would save time—and awkward chit-chat. America probably had dozens of better versions by now.

Stephanie handed me a warm takeaway cup, and we walked through a back corridor until we reached the rear of the center. The air here felt different—quiet, detached from the chaos of emergency sirens and echoing footsteps. A few luxury cars gleamed under the filtered sunlight that poured in from the high windows.

“Your hiding spot?” I wondered aloud, smiling faintly.

“Yes.” She raised her decaf with a playful tilt. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The word slipped from my lips automatically, but my mind had already drifted back to another time—another place.

As students, we carved out a small sanctuary behind the library—ivy-covered walls, a hush that softened the whole world. Whenever the pressure built or heartbreak threatened to swallowed us, that’s where we went. Sometimes we filled the hours with conversation. Sometimes we sat in comfortable silence, shoulder to shoulder. Simpler days… before everything tangled itself into knots.

“What are you doing here, by the way?” Stephanie leaned back slightly as she sipped her decaf latte. Her tone was casual, but her eyes carried a spark of curiosity.

“A friend of mine’s in the emergency ward,” I said. “Spike in temperature, possible infection. They’re doing imaging work and checking for any allergic reactions.”

Her lips twitched—not in amusement, but in something colder, edged with bitterness. So different from the expressions we shared in the past.

My brows knitted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She exhaled, shoulders dropping as she leaned closer. “It’s how they make money here, June. Especially places like this… everything is built around profit. Every screening, every extra procedure—it all adds up. We have targets to hit, or…” She took a moment, her gaze shifting toward the row of parked cars. “Or we’re penalized. Sometimes, they just don’t renew your contract.”

I stopped mid-breath, processing her words. ”Wait—quota?”

The word felt foreign in my mouth. It wasn’t supposed to belong in medicine.