Page 41 of Billionaire’s Ruin

It all clicked at once—the clammy skin, the drowsiness, the sudden collapse. The confusion. The temperature that wasn’t just a simple fever.

Dannie wasn’t just allergic. He was diabetic.

The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity, burning through the fog in my mind. My pulse hammered in my ears. How had I missed it? The symptoms had been there, staring me in the face, but I’d been blinded—by assumption, by distraction, by him.

His strength, the way his muscles tensed beneath his shirt, the energy he carried even when exhausted—it didn’t fit the picture I’d unconsciously built of what a diabetic patient should look like. And because it didn’t fit, I hadn’t seen it.

The report confirmed what my gut was now screaming: Dannie’s episode earlier hadn’t been from the seafood, or the alcohol, or even the supposed allergy. It had been a hypoglycemic reaction—a dangerous drop in glucose levels.

He could have died.

He could have suffered brain damage if we hadn’t gotten him here in time.

A tightness crept up my throat, the bright, chemical air suddenly too dense to breathe. My fingers trembled as I clutched the paperwork, trying to steady my thoughts.

For a heartbeat, all I could hear was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above us and the rhythmic beep from the next bed.

Then I turned to look at him—his lips slightly parted, his lashes resting against his cheek, his hand still resting on the blanket. He seemed so peaceful. So alive.

But he shouldn’t have been.

9

Kai

* * *

“Please…” I begged, a sting building behind my skull.

She’d been breaking down every night—quietly, when she thought no one could hear her. Sometimes, she would turn her head toward the window, pretending to be lost in thought, but the reflection on the glass always betrayed her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that being alone made her sad.

And if what the adults said was true, then I was smarter than most children my age. Heck, Dad used to brag that I was smarter than most of his employees.

Though every time I volunteered to “help” at his company, his answer was always the same—One day, son. One day.

“You must go.” My mother mouthed the words, her lips trembling as she tried to smile. “Your dad and I have a business trip.”

There was that pause again.

The familiar hesitation she used when she promised I could have ice cream after dinner—only for me to find out there was none in the freezer.

The identical pause before she’d say, We’ll go to the cinema this weekend, and later realize she was “double-booked.”

By now, I’d collected enough examples—enough data, as Dad would say—to identify a lie before it even finished forming on her tongue.

“But I need to practice for my piano recital,” I lied, trying to sound desperate. There was no recital.

Mom wouldn’t know that—she had never been to one.

Not to my recitals, not to my matches, not to anything I ever did at school.

Unless there were cameras, reporters, or investors’ wives in the audience. Then, and only then, she’d make sure to appear for a photo. But never long enough to watch me play.

Lying was a habit I’d only recently picked up. Auntie Five’s nephew had once told me that adults bent the truth constantly—so much so that even the rule about honesty was a joke. It confused me at first, but then it started to make sense.

Because my parents? They twisted the truth too. Not only that—they were good at it. They manipulated facts to get things done. To get people to do what they wanted. To get me to do this trip.

“You done?” Xiao Wu’s voice came from beside me in the back seat.