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.