Page 39 of Billionaire’s Ruin

When I returned to the emergency ward, the harsh fluorescent lights felt colder than before. Dannie was awake now, looking pale but alert. The IV bag hanging above him was nearly empty, its clear line trembling with the last few drops of fluid.

“Hey,” I whispered, stepping up to the bed. “Feeling any better?”

“Just a headache.” The words came out rough, but his eyes had cleared.

Pressing my palm to his forehead, he felt cooler. “That’s good,” I murmured. “You’re not burning up anymore.”

He leaned back against the elevated headrest, breathing a little easier. “Are you hungry?” I checked, glancing toward the hallway. “There’s a caféout front. Maybe some pastries?”

He reached out, his fingers closing gently around my wrist before I could move. “Stay. Please. Just stay for a minute.”

Something in his gesture—raw, tired, almost pleading—made me sit down immediately. The plastic chair beside his bed creaked under my weight.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

For a moment, we sat in silence, the rhythmic beeping of the monitor filling the air between us. My gaze flickered to every figure passing the bed—nurses, orderlies, even the catering staff. I was tense, alert, waiting for the next interruption.

“What did the doctor say?” he prompted.

“They’re still waiting for your report,” I explained. “They can’t say for sure what caused your episode until then.”

He sighed, the sound weary but calm. “Okay. I’m sure it’s nothing. I feel fine now.”

“You had an allergic reaction,” I reminded him gently. “Your throat swelled up—you were unconscious. Probably why your head hurts too. They wanted consent to run an allergy panel while you were asleep, but…”

“But?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s probably the crabs,” Dannie said with a shrug, “and the alcohol.”

His dismissive tone lit a slow, simmering fire in my chest. Heat rose up from my stomach, spreading to my throat like a contained explosion. “What are you saying?” My words came out harsher than I intended. It wasn’t really a question—I wanted an explanation. No, I needed one.

“It happens every time I have seafood. And alcohol. But the two together just make it worse.”

My pulse skipped. “But I’ve seen you drink before!” The words escaped me thin and squeaky. Weak. Helpless.

“Yes,” he said calmly, his mouth barely lifting. “That was different. I was prepared.”

“Prepared how?” My brows knitted together. “And Beng didn’t know you have an allergy?” My mind scrambled to replay fragments of last night—his laughter, the dishes on the table, Beng’s proud, beaming expression. Hadn’t he said Dannie loved crabs? Unless my memory was playing tricks on me.

Dannie’s tone stayed even, unbothered. “No, Beng didn’t know. But it wasn’t his fault. I do love shellfish. I just… forgot to bring my antihistamine.”

A grunt escaped me before I could stop it. Classic. This was exactly the kind of patient that drove my anxiety sky-high—people who treated their bodies like disposable machines. “And the alcohol?” I questioned, each syllable flat with disbelief. “Do you pop antihistamines every time you drink?”

His mouth pushed into a boyish pout. “Just before. It stops me from turning red.”

“Dannie,” I hissed, “that’s insane.”

His expression tightened, meeting my glare with maddening calm. “What other choice do I have? You saw it yourself last night. I lose face if I refuse to drink. And you saw how happy Beng was—to cook, to show off his culinary skills. I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

I stared at him, speechless. He had a way of turning reckless logic into something that almost sounded noble. “Okay, whatever,” I muttered.

We could argue for hours and never get anywhere. I’d learned that long ago—he always had to win. Not because I was wrong, but because his need to be right outweighed everything else.

Still, I understood. In our culture, to refuse food or a drink offered in good faith was an insult. Losing face was worse than getting sick. It was twisted, but deeply ingrained—a pride older than reason. Maybe we were all victims of those beliefs, the ones that defined who we were even when they made no sense.

“Listen,” I said, sighing, “the doctor might want you to stay. For observation.”