Page 33 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Linda!” I yelled, hoping my shout reached her before I even opened the door.

I rushed outside, my heart hammering in my chest. I caught a glimpse of her back just as she shut the door. “Linda! Linda!”

Two seconds later, her head popped out from the half-open door, murmuring, “I’ll call you later”, before ending the call.

“Everything okay?” she asked, skipping any greeting.

“Dannie…” My breath came out in ragged bursts, as if I’d just sprinted a mile. “He’s really ill—he needs proper medical help. I don’t know what to do. We’re both foreigners, I don’t know how it works here.” The words tumbled out of me fast and messy, like something hot I couldn’t hold in my mouth.

“Oh, I see. Don’t panic,” Linda said in her calm, measured tone that somehow made me more anxious. Did she even understand how bad this was? “Let me check on him.”

“This way,” I said quickly, though she already knew where we lived.

She set her grocery bags on the little sideboard by her entrance before following me across the walkway. Her house had the same layout as ours, but hers felt lived-in—warm, cluttered, cozy—with books, framed photos, and a faint scent of citrus and cleaning spray.

“Do you have a thermometer?” I asked. “He has a fever.”

By the time we reached Dannie, he had somehow dragged himself onto the L-shaped sofa. He appeared half-awake, dazed, his lips dry and cracked. I slipped the thermometer under his arm. He barely flinched.

When it beeped, I glanced at the tiny red screen.

“Forty-point-five degrees Celsius…” I read it out loud.

“That’s very high,” Linda said quickly. “You need to get him checked. Actually—if money isn’t an issue—go straight to a private medical center. They’re pricey, but usually excellent.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.” I nodded, fighting to keep it together. “Please—can you help me get a taxi?”

An hour later, someone finally examined him. If it hadn’t been for Linda, I honestly wouldn’t have known what to do. She’d practically taken charge from the moment we got into the taxi—calm, confident, the kind of person who somehow always knew which desk to go to, what form to sign, what queue to stand in. Without her, I would have been lost, paralyzed between anxiety and confusion.

Even though the healthcare system here in Malaysia wasn’t exactly complicated, it was unfamiliar to me. I’d read somewhere that the country was a hotspot for medical tourism—affordable treatment, modern facilities, physicians trained overseas.

People came from neighboring countries and even as far as the United States for surgeries or treatments that would have cost ten times more back home.

I used to think it was just clever marketing, a vacation disguised as medical care. Now that I was here, sitting under the sharp chill of an overactive air conditioner, I was starting to believe it.

At Green Eagle Hospital, the emergency department was bright and sterile, all glass panels and polished white tiles that gleamed under fluorescent light. Nurses moved briskly from one patient to another, their soft rubber soles whispering across the slick surface.

The man who finally saw Dannie was a soft-spoken older gentleman with silver hair and he had the kind of face that made people sit up straight. His accent carried that old-school British crispness—the kind that made every sentence feel thoughtful, deliberate.

I found myself wondering where he’d gone to medical school. Oxford? Cambridge? Somewhere with ivy-covered walls and ancient libraries, maybe. I made a mental note to ask later, when Dannie wasn’t hal-delirious on that bed.

The doctor performed a quick but thorough examination—listening to Dannie’s lungs, checking his pulse, tapping on his abdomen. He moved in calm, efficient silence, nodding occasionally as he scribbled notes onto his clipboard. After a few moments, he straightened and spoke quietly to the nurse, ordering a blood screening and some additional scans for “further investigation.”

Scans? My brows knitted together. What kind of scans? And for what reason? Dannie had a fever, not a life-threatening condition. It didn’t make sense, but I didn’t want to question him in the middle of the exam room.

The nurse, efficient and polite, led me out to the reception counter to handle the payment before any procedures could be done. The woman behind the counter stood with the poised confidence of someone who’d perfected her pitch.

She eagerly explained their special health packages while I stood there, my heart still pounding from the unease. Since a sample was already being drawn, she suggested adding a “comprehensive wellness panel”—an extensive round of laboratory screenings that covered everything from cancer indicators to genetic vulnerabilities to rare metabolic conditions. There was even a “Platinum VIP” option that came with a personalized report and lifestyle consultation.

It took me a second to realize she was upselling me.

“No, thank you,” I said quickly. “Just the basic lab work, whatever was ordered, please.”

The shift in her tone was immediate. The brightness in her expression dimmed, replaced by a neutral, almost mechanical cadence as she processed my request. I felt judged, like I’d just ordered the wrong dish at an upscale restaurant.

As I waited for the receipt, my brain wouldn’t stop spinning. Maybe this was how these facilities made their real money—not from treatment, but from fear. Offering endless tests, whispering the word “prevention” like a spell, hinting at hidden diseases that might not even exist. It was easy to say yes when you were scared. Easier to swipe a card than to risk missing something fatal.

Or maybe I was just imagining things. My thoughts always went to strange, paranoid places when I was anxious—and with Dannie burning up on that bed, it was no surprise I was spiraling.