Misdiagnosis in andrology, My Billionaire Husband

The ballroom was a sea of diamonds and tuxedos. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the murmur of polite, meaningless conversation.

When Jeanine stepped out of the elevator, the murmur stopped.

She wore a midnight-blue gown that clung to her curves like water. It was backless, revealing the smooth line of her spine. She had spent three hours in a salon, paid for with the black card. Her hair was swept up, her makeup flawless.

Conrad, waiting by the entrance, actually stopped checking his watch. His gaze traveled from her heels to her eyes. His throat moved as he swallowed.

He stepped forward, offering his arm. "Don't trip," he muttered, but there was no bite in his voice. "Those heels are ridiculous."

"You paid for them," Jeanine whispered back.

They moved onto the dance floor. Conrad placed his hand on her bare back. His palm was hot, burning through the cool air of the room. Jeanine stiffened.

"Relax," he murmured near her ear. "Everyone is watching."

A group of women approached. Leading them was a woman in a red dress that cost more than Jeanine's entire education. Tiffany Yang.

Tiffany's eyes narrowed as she scanned Jeanine. She smiled, a sharp, venomous expression. As she passed, she "stumbled," her wine glass tipping forward.

Red wine splashed across the hem of Jeanine's blue dress.

"Oh my god!" Tiffany gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in mock horror. "I am so sorry! I thought you were a waitress. I didn't see you there."

The women behind her giggled.

Conrad's grip on Jeanine's waist tightened. He opened his mouth to eviscerate Tiffany, but Jeanine placed a hand on his chest.

She stepped forward. She looked Tiffany dead in the eye.

"Your sclera is yellowing," Jeanine said calmly.

Tiffany blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The whites of your eyes," Jeanine clarified. "They have a yellow tint. And I noticed when you laughed, you have distinct palmar erythema-red palms."

The giggling stopped.

"You've probably been experiencing right upper quadrant abdominal pain," Jeanine continued, her voice clinical and projecting clearly. "And that perfume is trying to cover up fetor hepaticus. It's a specific breath smell associated with liver failure."

Tiffany went pale. Her hand instinctively went to her stomach.

"You're... you're cursing me!" she shrieked, but her voice cracked with fear.

"I'm diagnosing you," Jeanine said. "Go to a hospital. Now."

People were staring. Tiffany looked around, humiliated and terrified, and ran toward the exit.

Conrad looked down at Jeanine. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Before Jeanine could answer, a loud thud echoed from the other side of the room. Screams erupted.

"He's not breathing!" someone yelled.

An elderly man-Senator Miller-had collapsed near the buffet.

Conrad instinctively stepped in front of Jeanine, shielding her from the chaos. But she shoved him aside. She gathered her heavy skirt in her hands and sprinted in her heels.

She slid to her knees beside the Senator. "Call 911! Get the AED!" she shouted.

She checked for a pulse. Nothing. No breath.

"Cardiac arrest," she announced.

She positioned her hands over his sternum and began compressions. One, two, three, four.

Her expensive dress was soaking up the spilled wine on the floor. Her hair was coming loose. Sweat pricked at her hairline. But her rhythm was perfect.

Conrad stood at the edge of the circle, watching. He saw the focus in her eyes. The absolute command she had over the situation. She wasn't the stuttering girl in the locker room. She was a force of nature.

Minutes dragged like hours. Her arms burned.

"Come on," she grunted, pushing harder.

Suddenly, the Senator gasped. His body arched, and he sucked in a ragged breath.

The room erupted in applause.

Jeanine sat back on her heels, gasping for air. Her hands were shaking now.

Conrad pushed through the crowd. He took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders, covering her bare back.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

Jeanine looked up at him, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "I got him back."

Conrad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed her temple. "Yeah. You did."

He helped her stand. "Let's go. The show's over."

As they walked out, a camera flashed from behind a pillar. Neither of them noticed.

In the car, silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable anymore.

"I'll call the hospital," Conrad said, breaking the quiet. "Your evaluation with Thorne... consider it an 'A'."

Jeanine turned to him. A real smile, small and tired, broke across her face. "Thank you, boss."

Conrad looked away, out the window. "Don't get used to it."