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