Page 90 of Billionaire’s Ruin

I’d come here thinking I could help—be useful, contribute anything meaningful. But all I’d done since arriving was sit around and take up space.

A fragile ornament in a room full of moving parts.

A vase placed on a battlefield.

A distraction.

Worse—my presence out in public could detonate the whole plan.

I stared at the screen, at the lonely little unread message icon like it might miraculously turn bold, like news would appear if I longed fiercely enough for it.

Had Dannie’s fever gone down?

Had the infection spread?

Was he awake?

Was he scared?

Was he angry at me for leaving without a word?

The questions circled like vultures, sharper and more vicious each time they swooped back in.

Far away, thousands of miles away, he was fighting a different kind of battle—and I couldn’t even reach him.

I pressed the phone to my chest as if the blue halo of the screen could warm the empty place where answers should have been. The light stung my eyelids. A tight knot clawed up my throat. Lincoln’s words—“grow up”—looped in my head like a broken record, but they felt less like an insult now and more like a dare.

All my life I’d wanted to prove I wasn’t a spoiled pretty thing paraded around at dim sum tables. That’s why I became a doctor: to earn it, to be useful. Somewhere along the way, I’d let usefulness get blurry. I’d been useful in the abstract—talking, planning, buying a hospital at midnight—but useless where it mattered: where hands and timing and medical decisions could keep someone alive.

Okay. Think.

I sat up straighter and began to make a list in my head, the way I always did when panic tried to own me—a surgeon’s checklist in civilian clothes.

First: medical intel.

I texted Stephanie, swallowing my pride and asking for help.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard longer than I wanted to admit. We had history, sure. But I didn’t even like her that much—half our university memories involved her disappearing behind the anatomy lab to make out with whatever half-decent guy who wandered past.

But really… was what I was doing now any different?

For someone who hated being ditched, I’d done more than my fair share of it.

And Dannie…

God, Dannie had been the one to suffer the most from that particular cruelty. I’d walked away from him again and again—always with an excuse ready to go, always too busy, too overwhelmed, too afraid of what acknowledging him might mean.

Stephanie replied faster than expected.

Sure. I’ll check on him. Heading into morning rounds anyway. I’ll update you.

Just like that. No hesitation.

Relief rippled through me, loosening a tight, painful knot around my ribs. For once, I’d actually done something—not just existed in the corner while everyone else moved the world without me.

Of course, she didn’t miss her chance to pry.

Who is this Dannie guy?