Page 37 of Billionaire’s Ruin

“Well.” Stephanie raised her eyebrows at me, and instantly I knew what she meant. That small gesture—the subtle tilt, the half-smirk hiding behind her lips—pulled me back years in time. We once had this uncanny connection, one that went beyond words. We could read each other’s thoughts, finish each other’s sentences, or sometimes just share a single look across the library and know exactly what the other was thinking. I wondered if we still had that.

“You mean.” I leaned forward, lowering my tone, “you have to do a certain number of scans and screenings every year? Even when patients don’t actually need them?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah. They charge for every procedure. The doctors… we’re the ones who have to suggest them, of course. Emphasize the possible illnesses, plant that seed of worry. Make it sound like we’re doing it out of caution.”

I swallowed hard, stunned. “And people just buy into that?”

“In a way.” She lifted a shoulder, her tone more weary than defensive. “Most patients know what they’re signing up for. But when a medical plan is footing the bill, they stop caring. It’s easier to say yes than to ask questions.”

“Wouldn’t that affect their policy? Their premium, I mean.” A small frown tugged at my brow as I tried to make sense of it. “Or maybe coverage works differently here…”

“That…” Her fingers tapped lightly against her cup, “I honestly don’t know. I just do what I’m told.”

A slight tilt of the head gave away my amusement. “You? Doing what you’re told?” I raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like the Stephanie I knew back then.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I was shocked too, believe me. But Steven warned me—either play along or stay home. He even went out of his way to hire this old nurse for me. She’s experienced, sure, but she practically runs my office. She sticks fluorescent notes all over my patients’ files—‘Recommend MRI,’ ‘Add allergy panel,’ ‘Repeat bloodwork.’ Some days I think she could just replace me entirely.”

A smile crept in before I could stop it. It reminded me of Siti, my assistant back at the clinic, who also had a thing for sticky notes—though hers were more like quiet nudges than corporate orders. Patient nervous—offer candy. Remind husband not to faint. That sort of thing. At least her writing had warmth behind it.

“And staying home wasn’t an option?” The question slipped out, even though the answer was obvious. Stephanie was never the domestic type. Still, people change. The last time I’d seen her was at her wedding, and back then, she had appeared so radiant and sure. Maybe marriage had softened her. Maybe motherhood had changed her mind.

She jerked her head in a hard no. “Can you imagine me as a stay-at-home mom? I’d be bored to death. I know some people love it, and that’s great for them, but me? I need movement. I need to be out there. I’m happiest surrounded by white walls, stainless steel trays, and that crisp sterile bite in the air you only get in a medical ward.”

My mouth tugged upward. “Germ-free?”

“Hey,” she pointed her finger at me, pretending to be offended. “Sue me for being addicted to antiseptic.”

Her words made me chuckle. But I also couldn’t help thinking how ironic it sounded. We both knew that truly sanitized environments didn’t exist outside of surgical theaters. Even then, microbes had a way of sneaking in. Research had shown that over-sanitization could actually weaken the immune system. But I didn’t say it.

“So,” I began, “these additional procedures they push us to get… they’re not really necessary, are they?”

Deep down, I already knew the answer. But asking her made it feel real. Made it harder to ignore.

“No,” she confessed in a hushed tone. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Before I could respond, she gave me a sudden, playful shove. My body tilted sideways, almost losing balance. I’d forgotten how physical she could be, even with a pregnant belly leading the way. Beneath that maternal glow was still the same fiery, impulsive friend I’d known.

“But you should’ve guessed that already.” Her mouth lifted, though the expression never reached her eyes. Then she continued, “Anything you want to tell me?”

I hesitated, then sat down on a low plastic crate near the wall, ignoring the layer of grime on its surface. She should’ve been the one sitting, not me, but standing suddenly felt like too much effort. My body was tired; my mind, heavier still.

“A lot’s on my mind,” I admitted.

She arched an eyebrow. “Who was that?”

The last lukewarm sip bought me a few precious seconds to think. The bitter taste coated my tongue, anchoring me to the present while my thoughts scattered everywhere else.

“So… here’s the thing…” I murmured.

“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupted, her hand protectively covering her stomach. “Sorry, Bean,” she whispered to her unborn child, “you didn’t hear that. But my friend here so deserves that scolding.”

A reluctant smile surfaced—proof she hadn’t changed much at all.

“Fine.” The final drop went down in one gulp as my hand shot out to steal hers. “But first—I need something stronger to wake me up.”

She let out a dramatic gasp but didn’t stop me.

“It was a guy I dated briefly,” I admitted, gaze sinking into her paper cup like the answer might be hiding inside. “In Hong Kong.”