Misdiagnosis in andrology,My Billionaire Husband

Qing He

Modern | Ongoing

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I was forty-eight hours into my shift, smelling of stale sweat and clutching a red-stamped bill for my mother's life support. As a scholarship intern, I was a ghost in the hospital, working myself to the bone just to keep her ventilator humming. Then Dr. Thorne shoved a metal clipboard into my chest and ordered me to perform a surgical prep on a VIP patient for a circumcision. But the moment the cold betadine touched the man's skin, he lunged at me like a predator, his hand crushing my wrist until the bone nearly snapped. "I'm here for a kidney stone. What kind of incompetent butcher shop is this?" He wasn't a patient; he was Conrad Marks, a lethal billionaire, and Thorne had intentionally set me up to assault him. Within minutes, a five-million-dollar lawsuit was filed, and the Dean ordered security to shred my license and throw me out of the building. My phone buzzed with a final notice: the facility was stopping my mother's meds at midnight because my payment had failed. I was a doctor who had just been framed and a daughter about to watch her mother die. I didn't understand why Thorne would ruin me so casually, but with my mother's life on the line, I had nothing left to lose. I slipped past the guards and back into the billionaire's suite with a set of silver needles and a desperate bargain. I stopped his agony in seconds, and when he looked at me with those cold, lethal eyes, I offered a trade: I would be the fake girlfriend his family demanded if he would save my mother and bury the lawsuit. "Deal," he said, his grip on my waist tightening with dark possession. I signed the contract, realizing I hadn't just saved my career-I had sold my soul to the most dangerous man in New York.

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Chapter 10 10

Yesterday 13:27

Chapter 1 1

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."