Page 40 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Do I really have to?” he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I suspect it’s nothing,” slipped out of me in a low murmur, then I paused. “Probably a mix of the stomach bug, the allergy… and the stubbornness of an idiot who thinks he’s made of iron.”

He grinned, eyes glinting. “Iron Man,” he said, almost proudly.

“By the way.” I paused, ignoring the little flutter his smile gave me, “do you have insurance?”

He stared back at me. “What?”

“Medical insurance.”

“Those are for pussies,” he said without missing a beat. “I don’t buy insurance.”

A thin, disbelieving exhale slipped from my throat. ”You don’t?”

“Except for my cars,” he replied easily. “Can’t get away without that now. The police have those cameras that detect number plates, fine you on the spot. So, yeah, I pay that one. But I didn’t really bother until recently…”

“I’ve heard enough.” I cut him off, digging my fingers into my temple. “Please, just go back to being sick and quiet.”

He chuckled. “Are you saying you don’t miss this?” He pointed at himself and smirked.

I rolled my eyes, but something in the way his mouth tilted softened the frustration coiled in my chest. Dannie here—in Malaysia—was a different creature. The usual cold, composed exterior he wore back in Hong Kong was gone, stripped away like a heavy coat.

Here, the sunlight made him warmer. The air made him freer. And I realized, with a biting pressure bloomed beneath my ribs, that the serious man I’d known before was just another mask—something he wore for survival, for his family, for the image he needed to keep. Underneath that, there was this version of him: cheeky, bright, and alive.

The nurse peeked through the privacy curtain before stepping in, her crisp uniform whispering as she moved. She said something in Malay, her tone brisk and efficient. When I apologized for not understanding, she switched to English without missing a beat.

“Your results look okay.” Her delivery was quick, no extra commentary. “Let me check your temperature.” She replaced the thermometer’s cap with practiced precision, then slipped it gently into Dannie’s ear. “Thirty-eight point five,” she murmured, jotting it down before wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. The machine beeped once and began to inflate.

I watched every movement, the way her fingers pressed the device, the quiet hum of the monitor, the sterile sharpness in the air mingling with the faint citrus of her lotion. It reminded me how much medical centers felt the same everywhere—clean, cold, and oddly comforting.

“Can I take a look at the chart?” I demanded, extending a hand toward the folder tucked under her arm.

Her expression hardened instantly. “No.” She hugged the documentation to her upper body, the single syllable clipped and final.

“Why not?” I pushed, frowning. Stephanie’s warning echoed through me about how these facilities liked to keep things… controlled.

Profitable.

“It’s for doctors and nurses only,” she replied curtly. “You wouldn’t understand the technical terms.”

Then, almost possessively, she placed the chart on the bed, pressing it down with one firm hand—guarding it like it contained state secrets.

I cleared my throat, straightening to my full height. “How convenient,” I announced proudly, “I’m a doctor myself.”

The nurse’s expression flickered, clearly not expecting that. Her brows pinched together as she pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose, studying my face like she was trying to decide whether to believe me.

“What kind of doctor?” she snapped, her tone clipped, almost defensive.

“One qualified enough to read whatever notes you’ve got in that file,” I replied, letting the firmness settle into every word. Unless the record contained some rare tropical disease I’d never encountered—which, frankly, was unlikely—I had every right to look.

Before she could say anything else, I reached out and snatched the notes from her arm. My movements were sharper than I intended, but adrenaline had already taken over. The paper felt warm from where she’d been holding it, the edges soft from overuse.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I muttered under my breath as I flipped it open. “You going to charge me for reading?”

My eyes scanned the messy handwriting, the clinical shorthand and numbers jumping out like coded messages. Then I froze.

“Oh no…” The words escaped before I could stop them. A gasp followed, sudden and audible, echoing faintly in the clinical air of the room.