Misdiagnosis in andrology, My Billionaire Husband

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.