Misdiagnosis in andrology, My Billionaire Husband

The morning sun hit the peeling paint of Jeanine's apartment building, highlighting every crack in the stucco. A black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb, gleaming like a polished beetle among the rusted sedans of the neighborhood.

Mrs. Higgins from 2B was leaning out her window, squinting. Jeanine kept her head down and hurried into the back seat of the car.

The interior was cool and smelled of new leather. A woman sat on the opposite side. She was sharp-angled, with a bob cut so precise it could cut glass.

"Dr. McIntosh," the woman said without looking up from her tablet. "I'm Lisa. Mr. Marks' executive assistant."

She wasn't just an assistant. Jeanine could tell by the way the woman scanned her-like she was checking for weapons.

Lisa handed her a thick file. "Background check. Memorize it. These are the lies you need to know."

Jeanine opened the folder. It was a dossier on Conrad. Marks Consulting. High-Level Government Analyst. Philanthropist. The file was heavy on public achievements and light on specifics. It screamed "classified," but Jeanine assumed it was just corporate privacy.

Across the city, in a glass-walled office high above the streets, Conrad threw a file onto his mahogany desk.

"She's clean," he muttered.

Lisa's voice came through the speakerphone. "Squeaky clean. Scholarship kid. Mom in a coma. Dad unknown. No boyfriends in the last four years. She studies, she works, she sleeps."

Conrad frowned. "It's too clean. Nobody is that boring." He flipped to the page about her family. His finger landed on a name. Jennings Burris.

"This garbage is her stepfather?"

"Gambling addict," Lisa confirmed. "Owes money to loan sharks. He's been trying to leverage the daughter's marriage prospects for cash."

Conrad leaned back in his chair, a cynical smile twisting his lips. "So that's it. She's not a saint. She's just desperate. She needs a payout to keep the wolves away."

An hour later, Jeanine stood in the foyer of Conrad's penthouse. The ceilings were twenty feet high. The view of Central Park was breathtaking. It was cold, sterile, and overwhelmingly expensive.

Conrad walked in. He was wearing a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. He didn't say hello.

"Sign this," he said, dropping a document on the glass coffee table.

Jeanine picked it up. Clause 4: No emotional attachment. Clause 7: Relationship termination at sole discretion of Client. Clause 15: Breach of contract penalty: $10,000,000.

Her hand shook as she signed. She was signing away her life.

Conrad picked up the contract, checked the signature, and tossed a black card onto the table. It made a heavy thwack sound.

"Get some clothes," he ordered. "I don't want people thinking I date homeless women."

Jeanine bristled. "I have clothes."

Conrad looked pointedly at her jeans. They were faded white at the knees from years of wear. "Those are rags. Burn them."

Jeanine picked up the card. It felt warm. "I will pay you back. Every cent." She stared at the card. It was a lifeline, but it was also a shackle. If she used it for anything other than his approved expenses, she was just another one of Jennings' assets being sold off.

"I don't care," Conrad said, turning his back. "There is a charity gala tonight. You will attend. You are my date."

"Tonight?" Jeanine panicked. "I have a shift! Dr. Thorne will-"

"Dr. Thorne has already approved your leave," Conrad said over his shoulder. "I pulled some strings with the hospital board. A 'generous donation' usually clears schedules."

He stopped and turned back to her. His eyes were hard. "Tonight, you are not a stuttering intern. You are Conrad Marks' woman. Act like it."

When he left, the silence of the penthouse crashed down on her. Jeanine sank onto the Italian leather sofa. It was uncomfortable.

Her phone buzzed.

Jennings: Heard you got picked up in a limo. Don't hold out on me, sweetie. Daddy needs a taste.

Jeanine stared at the screen. A dark rage bubbled in her chest. She gripped the phone so hard the case creaked.

For a second, she thought about dialing the number she had memorized but never saved. The number that connected to Boston. To the Singleton family trust. To her brother, Keenan.

But she couldn't. Not since Jennings had intercepted the last letter. He had made it clear: if she contacted the Singletons, he would move her mother to a state facility where "accidents happen." The Singletons had money, but Jennings had legal custody and a total lack of morality. She couldn't risk her mother's life on a phone call that might be traced.

She closed her eyes and exhaled. No. She would do this herself.

She looked at the black card in her hand. She would use it for the dress. For the role. But she wouldn't buy a single sandwich for herself. She wouldn't owe him a penny more than necessary.

If he wanted a show, she would give him one.