The Billionaire Doctor's Runaway Patient

Hope's fingers hovered over the keyboard. They were shaking. A sharp, dragging pain clawed at her lower abdomen, forcing a sharp breath through her teeth. Cold sweat gathered at her hairline, making the fluorescent lights of the Wall Street bullpen blur into harsh white streaks.

She pressed her thighs together under the desk, desperate to ease the burning pressure in her bladder. The slight movement caused her office chair to roll an inch. The friction sent a fresh wave of searing heat through her pelvis. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

A thick stack of financial reports slammed onto her desk. Papers slid across the worn laminate surface, a few fluttering to the floor. Hope flinched, her shoulders jerking up to her ears.

"Are you blind, Spence?" Franklin Finch's voice boomed over the low hum of the office.

Hope looked up. Her boss leaned over her cubicle, his face flushed with anger.

"The margins on page four are completely misaligned," Franklin spat, his voice loud enough to make the analysts in the next row stop typing. "I don't pay you to format like a middle schooler. Fix it."

The humiliation burned the back of her neck. She could feel the cold, indifferent stares of her coworkers pressing into her skin. The physical agony in her lower half flared again, making her vision swim. She couldn't focus on the numbers. She couldn't even breathe properly.

Hope stood up abruptly. Her chair screeched against the plastic floor mat, cutting off Franklin's next insult.

"I need to use the restroom," Hope whispered, her voice tight.

Franklin rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his expensive suit. "You have five minutes. If this isn't fixed when you get back, you're redoing the entire deck tonight."

Hope didn't argue. She clutched her stomach, pressing her forearm against the sharp ache, and walked toward the long hallway. Her low heels sank silently into the thick carpet of the hallway. Though the sound was muffled, every single step sent a shockwave of pain straight up her spine. It felt like walking on shattered glass.

She pushed through the heavy bathroom door and locked herself in the furthest stall. Her hands trembled violently as she pulled down her pantyhose. A tearing sensation ripped through her, so intense she had to close her eyes and lean her forehead against the cold metal wall of the stall.

When she looked down at the toilet bowl, the water was stained a bright, terrifying red.

Panic seized her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She pulled out her phone, her thumbs slipping on the screen as she searched for the nearest community clinic. The earliest available appointment was in three days.

A wave of absolute despair washed over her. She couldn't survive three hours like this, let alone three days.

Desperate, she opened her messages. Yesterday, her mother's overbearing matchmaker, Beatrice, had sent her a promotional text about an elite private clinic in Manhattan. Hope had ignored it, knowing she couldn't afford it. Now, her trembling fingers tapped the number.

The line rang once. "Manhattan Comprehensive, how can I direct your call?" a crisp, efficient voice answered.

"I need a doctor," Hope gasped out, leaning heavily against the stall door. "I'm bleeding. It's an emergency."

"We have a cancellation," the receptionist said, her tone completely devoid of emotion. "One of our top specialists has a fifteen-minute window right now. Can you be here in ten minutes?"

"Yes," Hope breathed. "I'll be there."

She hung up and turned to the sink. She splashed freezing water on her face, shivering as it dripped down her pale cheeks. She smoothed her wrinkled skirt, grabbed her bag, and walked out.

She ignored Franklin yelling her name as she sprinted past his office. She pushed through the revolving doors of the building and practically threw herself into the back of a yellow cab.

"Upper East Side," she told the driver, clutching her stomach as the cab lurched into traffic.

The cab pulled up to a discreet, luxurious annex building attached to the main hospital. Hope paid the exorbitant fare and pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The lobby was silent. Thick, plush carpets absorbed her footsteps. The air smelled of expensive white tea and eucalyptus, a jarring contrast to the exhaust fumes outside. She felt instantly out of place in her cheap, off-the-rack suit.

She walked up to the marble reception desk and gave her name. The nurse behind the counter eyed her wrinkled clothes, then slid a thick electronic tablet across the counter.

Hope sat on a leather sofa, her hands shaking as she filled out the endless medical history forms. The cramping in her lower stomach hit her in relentless waves. Her stylus dragged across the screen, leaving jagged signatures.

A nurse in pristine light blue scrubs walked up to her. "Hope Spence? Follow me."

Hope stood, her legs feeling like lead. She followed the nurse down a long, quiet corridor. Her pulse thudded in her ears. The fear of the unknown medical procedure twisted her stomach into tighter knots.

The nurse pushed open a heavy wooden door. The examination room was freezing. The bright surgical lights reflected off the stainless steel sink and the cold metal examination table in the center of the room.

"Take off everything from the waist down," the nurse instructed, handing Hope a paper gown so thin it was practically translucent. "Put this on. The doctor will be right in."

The nurse walked out, shutting the door.

Hope's face burned with intense shame. She stripped off her skirt and underwear, her fingers clumsy. She pulled the paper gown over her lap and climbed onto the crinkly paper covering the examination table. The air conditioning blasted against her bare skin. She gripped the edges of the paper gown so hard her knuckles turned white, her entire body shivering.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps sounded in the hallway. The doorknob turned.

Hope's heart slammed into her throat. She held her breath.

The door pushed open. A tall, broad-shouldered man walked in. He wore a perfectly tailored white coat over a dark shirt. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his jawline looked like it had been cut from stone. He was holding a tablet, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Corbin Mullen looked up.

His eyes were a piercing, icy blue. They locked onto Hope. The sheer, overwhelming presence of the man sucked the air out of the room. He was devastatingly handsome, which only made the situation a thousand times worse. Hope's humiliation skyrocketed. Her instinct took over, and she clamped her bare legs tightly together.

Corbin walked over to the sink and turned on the water. "How long have you been experiencing hematuria, Ms. Spence?" he asked. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, completely detached and professional.

The clinical coldness in his tone grounded her slightly. "Since this morning," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

Corbin dried his hands and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. The sound echoed in the quiet room. He walked to the foot of the table.

"Lie back," he commanded. It wasn't a request. "Put your feet in the stirrups."

Hope squeezed her eyes shut. A hot tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. She lay back against the crinkly paper and forced her legs apart, placing her heels into the cold metal stirrups.

Corbin's gloved fingers touched the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. The latex was freezing.

Hope gasped, her body flinching violently away from his touch.

Corbin's hand stopped moving. He didn't pull away. "Relax your muscles, Ms. Spence," he said, his voice dropping an octave, firm but steady.

He proceeded with the examination. It was thorough, highly invasive, and agonizingly slow. For three endless minutes, Hope stared at the blinding ceiling lights, her fingernails digging into her own palms, tears of pure, helpless humiliation pooling in her ears.

Corbin stripped off the latex gloves and tossed them into the biohazard bin. "You have a severe urinary tract infection," he said, turning his back to write on a prescription pad. "I'm prescribing a strong course of antibiotics. Get dressed."

He didn't look back as he walked out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Hope scrambled off the table the second he was gone. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely manage the zipper on her skirt. She threw her clothes on, buttoning her blouse wrong in her frantic rush. She grabbed her purse and bolted out of the examination room like the building was on fire.

She kept her head down as she hurried through the plush lobby, terrified she might lock eyes with that devastatingly handsome doctor again. She pushed through the glass doors and hit the New York pavement.

The crisp autumn wind hit her flushed face. She let out a long, shaky exhale. She reached into her bag to grab her phone to check the time.

Her fingers met empty space.

Hope stopped walking. She dug frantically through the contents of her purse. No phone. And then it hit her-she hadn't grabbed the prescription slip either. They were both sitting on the metal tray next to the examination table.

A fresh wave of pelvic pain radiated through her lower back, a cruel reminder that she couldn't just walk away. Without that prescription, she couldn't get the medicine.

"No, no, no," Hope groaned aloud, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

She turned around and dragged her feet back toward the clinic entrance. The walk of shame felt ten times longer.

She approached the marble reception desk. "Excuse me," Hope said, keeping her voice low. "I left my phone and my prescription in exam room two. Can someone grab them for me?"

The receptionist was typing rapidly, a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. She pointed a manicured finger down the hallway. "Wait outside the door. A nurse will bring it out."

Hope swallowed her pride and walked back down the quiet corridor. She stopped a few feet away from the partially open door of room two. She wrung her hands together, her stomach twisting with anxiety.

Through the crack in the door, she heard Corbin's deep, resonant voice. He was speaking rapidly, using complex medical jargon to instruct a nurse about a surgical prep.

Hope peeked through the gap. Corbin was leaning over the counter, signing a chart. The harsh clinic lighting caught the sharp angles of his profile. The sheer authority radiating from him made Hope's breath catch in her throat.

The nurse suddenly turned and walked out, nearly colliding with Hope. The nurse, looking surprised to see her waiting, offered a brief, professional smile and held out the items. "You forgot these, Ms. Spence."

"Thank you," Hope whispered, clutching the items.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Corbin lift his head, his icy blue eyes shifting toward the doorway.

Hope spun around and practically sprinted down the hallway, fleeing the building before he could say a word.

Once outside, she tapped her phone screen. It lit up with five missed text messages from her mother, Belva.

You better not be late.

Beatrice worked hard to set this up.

He is a doctor. Don't ruin this.

Where are you?

Answer me!

Hope groaned, rubbing her throbbing temples. The blind date. She had completely forgotten. She looked at the address Beatrice had texted her-a high-end French cafe in Midtown.

She hailed another cab. Traffic was a nightmare. As the taxi crawled down Fifth Avenue, Hope pulled out her compact mirror. She looked awful. Her skin was pale, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hair was a mess. She tried to smooth it down, but she just looked exhausted.

The cab pulled up to the cafe. Hope paid and stepped out, tugging at the hem of her wrinkled skirt. She took a deep breath, pasting a fake, polite smile on her face, and pushed the door open.

Soft jazz floated through the air. The smell of roasted espresso and warm croissants filled the room. Hope looked around, searching for the man Beatrice had described: Wearing a navy suit, reading a medical journal.

The hostess smiled at her. "Table for two? Name?"

"Spence," Hope said. "I'm meeting someone."

"Right this way."

The hostess led her toward a secluded, velvet-lined booth by the window. Hope walked behind her, her eyes landing on the broad, imposing shoulders of a man sitting in the booth. The navy suit he wore looked incredibly expensive, the fabric stretching perfectly across his back.

Hope mentally rehearsed the polite, generic greeting her mother had drilled into her head. Her feet felt heavy as she approached the table.

Hearing her footsteps, the man closed the medical journal on the table and slowly turned his head.

Hope's fake smile froze. Her lungs stopped working. The blood drained completely from her face.

Sitting across from her was Dr. Corbin Mullen.

His dark hair was slightly tousled. He wasn't wearing the white coat anymore, but the icy blue eyes were exactly the same.

Hope's knees buckled. Her leg slammed into the heavy wooden table leg. The impact rattled the table, causing the silver spoon in the coffee cup to clink loudly. A few people at the next table turned to look.

Her brain short-circuited. Her first instinct was to turn and run out the door, but her feet were glued to the hardwood floor.

Corbin stood up. His height immediately dominated the small space. He extended a large, masculine hand toward her, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him.

Hope stared at his hand. Her mind violently flashed back to thirty minutes ago-that exact hand, wrapped in a cold latex glove, touching the most intimate, vulnerable part of her body. Her stomach violently churned. She felt physically sick.

She didn't take his hand. She collapsed onto the velvet sofa like a puppet with its strings cut, her fingers digging into the strap of her purse with a death grip.

Corbin sat back down slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth. He leaned back against the velvet cushions, his eyes locking onto her terrified face.

"It seems New York is a very small city, Ms. Spence," Corbin said, his low voice vibrating with dark amusement.

Hope stared at him, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. She reached blindly for the glass of ice water on the table, desperate to wet her dry throat. Her hand was shaking so badly that the glass slipped. Water sloshed over the rim, spilling across the pristine white tablecloth.

Corbin didn't flinch. He reached out with fluid grace, pulling a linen napkin from the dispenser. He handed it to her across the table. As she took it, his warm fingertips brushed against her knuckles.

Hope yanked her hand back as if she had been burned.

She took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. Flight wasn't working. She needed to fight. She needed to make him leave. She forced her facial muscles into a wide, painfully fake smile.

She raised her hand and snapped her fingers loudly at a passing waiter. "Excuse me!" she called out, her voice intentionally loud and grating. "Bring me the Beluga caviar and a bottle of your most expensive Champagne. Now."

The waiter blinked, clearly taken aback by her harsh tone. He looked nervously at Corbin.

Corbin merely gave a slight nod, his expression unbothered. He leaned his elbows on the table, crossing his hands under his chin, and watched her with intense, calculating eyes. He looked like a predator watching a mouse run in circles.

Hope cleared her throat, leaning forward and adopting a nasal, materialistic tone. "So, Corbin. Beatrice tells me you're a doctor. Let's skip the small talk. What's your annual take-home? Do you own property, or are you still renting like a peasant?"

Corbin didn't blink. He didn't look offended. Instead, he met her gaze without flinching. "Enough to be comfortable, Ms. Spence. And I prefer to own my own space." His tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority that made Hope's provocation feel like a childish joke.

Hope choked. She hadn't expected him to be that wealthy, nor that honest. She grabbed a piece of complimentary bread from the basket and took a massive, unladylike bite to buy time. The dry crust caught in her throat. She started coughing violently, her eyes watering.

Corbin slid his untouched glass of water toward her. His lips twitched into a full smirk now.

"Dysphagia," Corbin said, his voice dropping into that clinical, authoritative tone that made her skin prickle. "Difficulty swallowing. Usually caused by esophageal spasms. Or, in your case, acute anxiety."

He was diagnosing her. At the dinner table.

Hope's face burned a dark, furious red. She slammed the water glass down. "You know, I always thought doctors were incredibly boring," she snapped, dropping the gold-digger act and going straight for insults. "You spend all day looking at sick people. It must ruin your appetite. How do you even stand it?"

Corbin leaned closer. The physical distance between them vanished. His broad chest hovered over the table, his icy blue eyes pinning her to her seat.

"I don't find it boring at all," Corbin said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight through her chest. "A doctor's job is to explore the deepest, most hidden parts of the human body. To find exactly where it hurts. I find that... fascinating."

The double meaning hit Hope like a physical blow. Her breath hitched. The memory of the examination room crashed over her again-the cold air, the stirrups, his intense focus. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She was completely outmatched. He was playing with her, and she was losing her mind.

The waiter arrived, setting the expensive caviar down between them.

Hope looked at the fish eggs, and her stomach violently rebelled. The pain in her pelvis throbbed in time with her racing pulse. She couldn't breathe. The air in the cafe felt suffocating.

She pushed her chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I need to use the restroom," she blurted out, her voice cracking.

Corbin didn't try to stop her. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly. He gestured toward the back of the cafe with an open palm. His eyes told her he knew exactly what she was doing.

Hope grabbed her purse and practically ran toward the back of the restaurant. She pushed through the restroom door and leaned against the sink, gripping the porcelain edges until her knuckles ached. She stared at her wild, terrified eyes in the mirror.

If she went back out there, she would shatter.

She looked to her left. There was a heavy metal door marked Employees Only.

Hope didn't hesitate. She pushed the bar and slipped into the dim, narrow hallway. She navigated past stacks of cardboard boxes and pushed open the back exit door.

The heavy smell of garbage and stale rain hit her. She was in a dark alleyway. She didn't care. She ran. Her heels splashed into dirty puddles, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn't stop running until she was two blocks away, turning the corner onto a busy avenue.

She leaned against a brick wall, her chest heaving, and looked back. No one was following her.

She pulled her phone out of her purse. Her hands were still shaking as she opened the text thread with Beatrice.

Zero chemistry, Hope typed furiously. He is an arrogant jerk. Do not ever give him my number again.

She hit send. Then, she opened her recent calls, found the clinic's automated text confirming her appointment, and extracted Corbin's direct office number.

She tapped Block this Caller.

A prompt popped up. You will not receive phone calls, messages, or FaceTime from people on the block list.

Hope hit Confirm. A rush of vindictive relief flooded her veins. She straightened her spine, took a deep breath of the city air, and walked down the subway stairs. It was over. She had escaped.

Back in the cafe, fifteen minutes had passed.

Corbin looked at the empty velvet seat across from him. He let out a low, dark chuckle. He raised his hand, signaling the waiter for the check.

He didn't look at the bill. He dropped a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table as a tip, picked up his medical journal, and walked out of the cafe with slow, measured steps.

A sleek black SUV was idling at the curb. Corbin climbed into the back seat. He pulled his phone from his suit pocket and dialed the number he had memorized from her medical chart an hour ago.

The phone didn't even ring. It went straight to a generic voicemail greeting.

Corbin's brow furrowed for a fraction of a second. Then, his eyes darkened, a dangerous, predatory light sparking in the icy blue depths. He tossed the phone onto the leather seat next to him and looked out the tinted window at the passing city lights.

"Think you can run, little liar?" he murmured to the empty car.