Misdiagnosis in andrology, My Billionaire Husband

The locker room smelled of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant, a scent that had burrowed into the fibers of Jeanine's scrubs over the last forty-eight hours. She slammed her locker shut, the metallic clang echoing in her skull, but the noise didn't drown out the pounding of her heart.

She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand. The red stamp across the top-OVERDUE-seemed to pulse like an infected wound. It was the third notice from the long-term care facility.

Her mother's life support.

A shoulder slammed into hers, hard.

Jeanine stumbled, clutching the bill to her chest as if it were a fragile bird.

"Watch it, McIntosh."

Dr. Thorne didn't even look back. The attending physician stood by the mirror, adjusting his tie with a narcissism that made Jeanine's stomach turn. He spun around, his eyes landing on her with the predatory focus of a hawk spotting a field mouse. He marched over and slammed a heavy metal clipboard against her chest.

The impact knocked the breath out of her.

"You're lagging," Thorne barked, his spit landing on her cheek. "I need a prep done in VIP Suite One. Now."

Jeanine gripped the clipboard, her fingers trembling. She glanced at the schedule on the wall. "Dr. Thorne, I... I'm on the Nephrology rotation today. That's Urology. I have rounds with-"

"Do you think I care about your schedule?" Thorne stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the stale coffee on his breath. "You're here on a charity scholarship, aren't you? A grant case."

He poked a finger into her shoulder, right where the strap of her bag dug in. "You don't get to pick and choose. You do what I tell you, or I write an 'F' on your evaluation so fast your head will spin. And we both know what happens to your precious scholarship then."

Jeanine's throat tightened. Her stutter, a ghost from a childhood she tried to forget, clawed at her throat. "B-but the protocol..."

"Silence," Thorne hissed. "Patient needs full surgical prep. Shave and scrub. It's a circumcision revision. He's under light sedation. Go."

Jeanine swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The threat was a physical weight, heavier than the debt, heavier than the exhaustion. Without that scholarship, the medical bills would crush her. Her mother would be evicted from the facility. The machines would turn off.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Good. Don't make me wait."

Jeanine turned and ran.

Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she navigated the labyrinth of the hospital. Her brain was a chaotic storm of pharmacological formulas and debt calculations, but her body moved on autopilot. She grabbed a prep tray from the supply cart-betadine, razors, sterile drapes, gloves.

VIP Suite One.

The hallway to the VIP wing was quieter, the air conditioning cooler. Two men in black suits stood outside the door like gargoyles. They were wide, their necks thick with muscle, earpieces coiling down into their collars.

Jeanine slowed, her breath hitching. This wasn't normal.

She held up her ID badge, her hand shaking so badly the plastic tapped against the clip. "Dr. Thorne sent me. Surgical prep."

The guard on the left looked her up and down. His gaze was cold, assessing her threat level. He saw the frayed scrubs, the dark circles under her eyes, the cheap plastic watch. He stepped aside.

Jeanine pushed the heavy door open and slipped inside.

The room didn't smell like a hospital. It smelled of sandalwood and expensive leather. The lighting was dim, focused on the bed in the center of the room. The hum of machines was a low, steady rhythm.

A man lay on the bed, his back to the door. The sheet was pulled up to his waist, exposing a broad, muscular back that tapered into a narrow waist. Even in sleep, he looked tense, his muscles coiled.

Jeanine approached the bed, setting the metal tray down on the rolling table. The clatter of steel on steel sounded like a gunshot in the silence. She winced, freezing.

The man didn't move.

Thorne said he was sedated, she thought. Just get it done.

She checked the chart at the foot of the bed. The name field was blank, replaced by a code: VIP-C. No diagnosis listed, just the room number.

"Okay," she whispered to herself, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. The sound was crisp. "Just get it done. Don't lose the scholarship."

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her hands. She moved to the side of the bed. The protocol was ingrained in her muscle memory. Expose the area. Disinfect. Shave.

She reached for the sheet. Her cheeks burned. She was a doctor; this was anatomy. Just flesh and blood.

She pulled the sheet down.

She reached for a cotton ball, soaked it in cold betadine, and moved her hand toward his groin.

The moment the cold liquid touched his skin, the world exploded.

A hand, large and hard as iron, shot out and clamped around her wrist.

"Ah!" Jeanine screamed, the tray clattering as her arm was yanked violently.

The man didn't sit up-he writhed, his body bowing in a spasm of agony before his survival instincts kicked in. He looked like a predator that had just been poked with a stick while caught in a trap. His eyes were dark, wild, and focused entirely on her throat.

He twisted her wrist, pain shooting up to her elbow. Jeanine stumbled back, her hip slamming into the instrument cart. Metal bowls and scissors crashed to the floor, a cacophony of disaster.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice was a low growl, strained through clenched teeth, vibrating with pain and fury.

Jeanine gasped, trying to pry his fingers off her wrist. It was like trying to bend steel. "I... I was prepping... for the surgery!"

The door burst open. The two bodyguards rushed in, guns drawn.

Jeanine froze. The black barrels were pointed directly at her chest. Her heart stopped. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She was going to die in a hospital room over a misunderstanding.

The man on the bed didn't look at the guards. He kept his eyes locked on her, his grip tightening until she thought her radius might snap. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face pale.

"Stand down," he ordered the guards, his voice icy despite the tremor of pain running through it.

The guards lowered their weapons but didn't holster them.

The man shoved Jeanine's hand away with a look of utter disgust. She stumbled, catching herself on the wall.

"Surgery?" He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as he moved. He was wearing silk boxers. He glared at her, his chest heaving. "I'm here for a kidney stone. What kind of incompetent butcher shop is this?"

Jeanine's blood ran cold. Kidney stone. Thorne had lied. He had set her up.

"B-but... Dr. Thorne said... c-circumcision prep..." Her voice was a pathetic squeak, the stutter returning with a vengeance under his glare.

The man's face darkened. The veins in his neck bulged. He looked at the spilled betadine, the razor on the floor, and then back at her. The realization of what she had been about to do seemed to fuel a rage that terrified her more than the guns.

He reached for the call button and slammed his thumb down on it.

"Get the Dean in here," he snarled, his eyes never leaving Jeanine's face. "And get this woman's license. I want it shredded before I leave this room."

Three minutes. That was how long it took for the hospital hierarchy to crumble.

The door swung open, and Dean Miller rushed in, his forehead glistening with sweat. Behind him trailed a pale-faced nursing supervisor and, bringing up the rear, Dr. Thorne.

Thorne's arrogance had evaporated, replaced by a practiced look of confusion. He looked small.

"Mr. Marks," the Dean panted, rushing to the bedside. "Mr. Marks, I am so terribly sorry. There has been a grave misunderstanding."

Marks. Jeanine's mind reeled. Conrad Marks. She had seen the name on donation plaques in the lobby, usually associated with generic "Consulting Groups" or "Strategic Analysis." A rich donor. A very angry, very powerful rich donor.

Conrad sat on the edge of the bed, a black silk robe now draped over his shoulders. The robe gaped slightly, revealing a jagged, pale scar that ran across his pectoral muscle. He looked regal and terrifying.

"A misunderstanding?" Conrad's voice was dangerously quiet. "I wake up to a strange woman holding a razor to my genitals, and you call it a misunderstanding?"

"She's an intern!" Thorne blurted out, pointing an accusing finger at Jeanine. "Dr. McIntosh. She's... she's incompetent. I told her to check the vitals. I never ordered a prep!"

Jeanine gasped. "Y-you did! You t-told me specifically-"

"Silence!" The Dean turned on her, his eyes pleading with her to be the scapegoat. "Dr. McIntosh, leave this room immediately."

Conrad held up a hand. The room went silent.

A man in a sharp grey suit stepped out from the shadows of the corner. Jeanine hadn't even noticed him. He placed a leather folder on the bedside table.

"My client," the lawyer said, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion, "will be filing a formal complaint for medical malpractice, assault, and severe emotional distress. We will be seeking damages."

He looked at Jeanine. "We start at five million."

The number hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Five million dollars.

Jeanine felt her knees give way. She grabbed the doorframe to stay upright. Her mother's care cost six thousand a month. She had twenty dollars in her bank account.

"Get her out of here," Conrad said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "And Miller? If she is employed here by sunset, I'm pulling every cent of funding my firm provides to this hospital."

Security guards grabbed Jeanine by the arms. She didn't fight. She was numb. They marched her down the hall, past the staring nurses, past the whispering patients, and shoved her out of the VIP wing.

"Stay in the break room until we process your suspension," one guard muttered.

Jeanine stood in the cold corridor. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out with trembling fingers.

Jennings: Facility called. Payment declined. They're stopping the meds at midnight unless you pay up. Don't be useless, Jeanine.

A sob ripped through her throat, but she clamped a hand over her mouth. She couldn't break down. Not now. Tears wouldn't pay the bills. Tears wouldn't save her mother.

She looked at the heavy double doors of the VIP wing.

She had nothing left to lose.

Jeanine wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She waited until the nurse at the station turned to answer a phone, then she slipped through the fire exit door. She climbed the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs, and emerged back onto the VIP floor near the back entrance.

She crept toward Suite One. The bodyguards were gone-likely sweeping the perimeter or getting coffee.

The door was slightly ajar.

"Mother, stop," Conrad's voice floated out. He sounded exhausted.

Jeanine froze, pressing her back against the wall.

"I don't care who she is. I don't care if her father is a Senator. I am not going to the gala with a date you picked out."

A pause.

"No. I'm not lonely. I'm busy. And I'm in pain... Yes, the stone... No, I am not impotent, for God's sake... Listen to me. I have no intention of marrying. Ever. Stop sending women to my house."

He groaned, a sound of genuine agony that had nothing to do with the phone call.

"I have to go."

The phone clattered down. Then came a sound of struggle-sheets rustling, a sharp intake of breath.

Jeanine peeked around the frame. Conrad was doubled over, gripping his side, his knuckles white. The kidney stone was moving. He wasn't the invincible tyrant now; he was a human being in excruciating pain.

She stepped inside.

Conrad's head snapped up. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead, but his eyes were still lethal.

"You," he hissed. He grabbed a heavy glass water pitcher from the table and hurled it.

"Get out!"

The pitcher smashed against the doorframe inches from her head. Glass exploded outward. Shards sliced across Jeanine's ankle, stinging sharply. Warm blood trickled into her sock.

She didn't flinch. She stepped over the glass.

"I can stop the pain," she said. Her voice shook, but she forced herself to walk toward him. "I can stop it right now."

Conrad laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "With what? A razor?"

"With this." Jeanine reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound case. She unrolled it on the table. Inside were thin, silver needles.

"Acupuncture?" Conrad looked at her like she was insane. "Get out before I kill you."

"Morphine takes twenty minutes to kick in," Jeanine said, her eyes locking onto his. "And it makes you groggy. This works in seconds. And you keep a clear head."

She stepped closer. He was cornered by his own pain, unable to stand.

"One needle," she bargained. "If it doesn't work, I'll sign a confession saying I assaulted you. If it works... you drop the lawsuit."

Conrad glared at her. A spasm of pain hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hissing through his teeth.

"Do it," he gritted out. "But if you miss, I break your arm."

Jeanine didn't hesitate. She took a needle. She didn't aim for his back or his side. She grabbed his hand.

She pressed her thumb into the fleshy web between his thumb and index finger-Li4, Hegu. She found the point of maximum resistance and tapped the needle in.

Conrad's eyes flew open. He gasped, not in pain, but in shock.

His shoulders dropped. The white-knuckled grip on the bedsheet loosened. The agonizing cramp in his flank didn't vanish, but the sharp, stabbing edge dulled instantly, fading into a manageable throb.

He stared at his hand, then at her. The silence in the room was deafening.

The room was so quiet Jeanine could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. Conrad stared at the silver needle quivering slightly in the skin of his hand. He flexed his fingers cautiously.

Jeanine sank to the floor. The adrenaline was draining out of her, leaving her limbs heavy as lead. She pulled up the leg of her scrubs. A shard of glass was embedded near her ankle bone. She pulled it out with a wince, pressing a tissue to the cut.

"You want money," Conrad said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

Jeanine stood up, ignoring the sting in her leg. "I told you. I want my license. I want the lawsuit gone."

Conrad looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. "That trick is useful. But it's not worth five million dollars."

Before Jeanine could argue, his phone on the nightstand began to buzz again. It vibrated violently against the wood.

GRANDMOTHER flashed on the screen.

Conrad squeezed the bridge of his nose. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff. He reached for the phone to decline it, but stopped.

"She's going to keep calling," Jeanine said softly. "Until you pick up."

Conrad's head snapped toward her. "Were you listening at the door?"

"I heard enough," Jeanine said. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was insane. This was suicide. But she thought of Jennings. She thought of the ventilator humming in her mother's room.

"You need a shield," she said, the words tumbling out before she could regret them. "Your family is pressuring you. You need them to stop. And I... I need to keep my job."

Conrad slowly turned his body toward her. The pain was manageable now, allowing his arrogance to return in full force. "Are you suggesting you play the role of my girlfriend? You have quite the ambition for an intern."

"It's a transaction," Jeanine said, her voice catching as his intense gaze bore into her. "I have... I have severe social anxiety. I s-s-stutter when I'm nervous. I have zero interest in you romantically. You're safe with me."

Conrad scoffed. He looked her up and down with open disdain. Her scrubs were three sizes too big, hiding her figure. Her hair was shoved into a lumpy surgical cap. Thick, black-rimmed glasses slid down her nose.

"Look at you," he sneered. "You look like a librarian who got lost in a laundry chute. Bringing you home would only prove my incompetence, not my stability."

Jeanine felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Without a word, she reached up and pulled off the surgical cap. Golden blonde hair cascaded down her back in heavy waves. She took off the glasses.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, the color of honey in the sunlight. Her bone structure, usually hidden by exhaustion and bad lighting, was delicate and aristocratic.

Conrad blinked. For a fraction of a second, the sneer faltered.

"I... I can act," Jeanine stammered, the stutter betraying her as she faced his judgment. "I can b-be presentable."

Conrad watched her struggle with the words. A strange look crossed his face-something dark and possessive.

The phone stopped ringing, then immediately started ringing again. This time, it was a FaceTime request.

Conrad looked at the phone, then at Jeanine. He made a decision.

He reached out, grabbed her arm, and yanked her forward.

"Hey!" Jeanine yelped as she lost her balance. She fell onto the bed, landing awkwardly against his chest. His arm clamped around her waist like a steel band, pinning her there. He smelled of sandalwood, crisp linen, and the faint metallic tang of the needle.

He hit the green button.

"Conrad!" An elegant elderly woman filled the screen. She was wearing pearls and a look of stern disapproval. "Why are you ignoring your mother? You must come home this weekend, and you must bring-"

"I'm not ignoring anyone, Grandmother," Conrad said. His voice changed instantly. It became warmer, lighter. "I've been occupied."

He turned the camera slightly so Jeanine's face filled the frame. She was pressed against his bare chest, her hair messy, her cheeks flushed red from the fall.

"Grandmother, this is Jeanine," Conrad said smoothly. "She's... taking care of me."

Jeanine froze. She felt Conrad's fingers dig into her waist, a silent command. Smile.

She forced the corners of her mouth up. "H-Hi."

The old woman on the screen gasped. Her eyes widened. "Oh my heavens. Is that... are those scrubs?"

"She's a doctor, Grandma," Conrad lied effortlessly. "Surgical intern."

"A doctor!" The grandmother clasped her hands together. "Oh, Conrad! Finally! Someone with a brain! And she's beautiful!"

Jeanine felt Conrad's chest rumble as he chuckled. It was a fake sound, but effective. "Yes, she is. We're a bit busy right now, Grandma. I'll call you later."

"Bring her to the Hamptons!" the grandmother shouted as the screen went black.

Conrad dropped the phone.

He released Jeanine instantly, pushing her away as if she were contagious.

"Deal," he said, wiping his hand on the sheet.

Jeanine scrambled off the bed, smoothing her scrubs. Her heart was racing so fast she thought she might pass out.

"Be at my office tomorrow at 8:00 AM," Conrad said, his voice back to glacial coldness. "You'll sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. It will be thicker than your medical textbooks. Now, get out."

Jeanine grabbed her bag and fled.

Outside in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, gasping for air. She could still feel the heat of his skin where her cheek had pressed against him. It smelled of danger.