Page 32 of Billionaire’s Ruin

Coffee, shower, done.

Always moving. Always composed.

But now—he just lay there.

“Dannie?” I set the plates down slowly. No response. “Dannie!”

A low hum escaped his throat. “Hmm?”

Something inside me twisted. His words were missing their usual warmth—they were weak, strained.

I hurried to his side, crouching next to him. His face was drained of color, damp with sweat. His t-shirt clung to his chest, soaked through. And yet… his lips were cracked and dry.

“Oh my god.” I reached out and pressed the back of my hand against his forehead.

A jolt of body heat hit me instantly.

He was practically simmering.

The paracetamol hadn’t worked last night.

And this wasn’t just a hangover anymore.

It was disturbing to think that the fever and moisture—the same ones that woke me up earlier today—weren’t entirely mine.

Maybe a little was, but most of it came from Dannie. His body was so warm it felt like he was burning from the inside out. I must have made him worse by drifting off on top of him like that. My stomach twisted with guilt, realizing my irresponsible drinking last night might have made him sicker.

“Can you get up?” I tapped his shoulder, but he didn’t respond right away. His breathing was uneven, shallow. His face looked washed-out, his skin shining with a damp sheen. Panic clawed its way up my throat. “Answer me! Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“I’m fine,” Dannie murmured at last, the sound thin and ragged. He tried to sit up, moving like his limbs were made of lead. I leaned forward, sliding my hands under his arm to help. His skin burned against my palm.

“You’re burning up,” I said, brushing the back of my hand against his cheek. “You should go to the ER.”

“I have a doctor,” he said with a teasing tilt of his mouth.

“I’m glad you can still joke,” I replied, though my words wavered. ”I don’t have anything here to diagnose you properly, and I can’t take that risk. Please, I’m begging you—let’s get you seen by a professional. Do you even have anyone here who can help?”

He shook his head weakly.

That was not the answer I wanted. I’d been meaning to figure out how to get medical help here—every country had its quirks—but I’d kept putting it off because I’d never been unwell.

And now, of course, it was happening when I least knew what to do.

“Fuck,” I muttered, scrabbling toward the dining table. “I’ll search online.” My cell was exactly where I’d left it last night, but when I pressed the button, the screen stayed black. Completely dead.

“Damn it!” I groaned, sprinting into my bedroom and shoving the device into its charging dock. I waited for that expected flicker of light, but no response. Seconds stretched into unbearable minutes. I tapped the screen, the cable, even the wall plug, as if sheer willpower could make electricity flow faster.

“Dannie!” I shouted, rushing back into the living room. He had slumped down again, sprawled out across the floor. My heart lurched. “Where’s your mobile?”

I spotted it before he could answer—flat on the coffee table. I grabbed it, pressed the power button once, twice, then the side buttons—no reaction. No light, no noise. Just dead silence.

“What should I do?” I choked out, the question barely holding together under the weight of my fear. Dannie’s eyes stayed closed, his breathing fast and shallow.

From outside, faint chatter drifted in—the unmistakable voice of the woman next door.

Linda.

She usually came home around this hour after her weekday routine—school drop-off, Pilates, grocery run.