The Billionaire Doctor's Runaway Patient

Hope stared at him, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths. She reached blindly for the glass of ice water on the table, desperate to wet her dry throat. Her hand was shaking so badly that the glass slipped. Water sloshed over the rim, spilling across the pristine white tablecloth. Corbin didn't flinch. He reached out with fluid grace, pulling a linen napkin from the dispenser. He handed it to her across the table. As she took it, his warm fingertips brushed against her knuckles. Hope yanked her hand back as if she had been burned. She took a deep breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. Flight wasn't working. She needed to fight. She needed to make him leave. She forced her facial muscles into a wide, painfully fake smile. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers loudly at a passing waiter. "Excuse me!" she called out, her voice intentionally loud and grating. "Bring me the Beluga caviar and a bottle of your most expensive Champagne. Now." The waiter blinked, clearly taken aback by her harsh tone. He looked nervously at Corbin. Corbin merely gave a slight nod, his expression unbothered. He leaned his elbows on the table, crossing his hands under his chin, and watched her with intense, calculating eyes. He looked like a predator watching a mouse run in circles. Hope cleared her throat, leaning forward and adopting a nasal, materialistic tone. "So, Corbin. Beatrice tells me you're a doctor. Let's skip the small talk. What's your annual take-home? Do you own property, or are you still renting like a peasant?" Corbin didn't blink. He didn't look offended. Instead, he met her gaze without flinching. "Enough to be comfortable, Ms. Spence. And I prefer to own my own space." His tone was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority that made Hope's provocation feel like a childish joke. Hope choked. She hadn't expected him to be that wealthy, nor that honest. She grabbed a piece of complimentary bread from the basket and took a massive, unladylike bite to buy time. The dry crust caught in her throat. She started coughing violently, her eyes watering. Corbin slid his untouched glass of water toward her. His lips twitched into a full smirk now. "Dysphagia," Corbin said, his voice dropping into that clinical, authoritative tone that made her skin prickle. "Difficulty swallowing. Usually caused by esophageal spasms. Or, in your case, acute anxiety." He was diagnosing her. At the dinner table. Hope's face burned a dark, furious red. She slammed the water glass down. "You know, I always thought doctors were incredibly boring," she snapped, dropping the gold-digger act and going straight for insults. "You spend all day looking at sick people. It must ruin your appetite. How do you even stand it?" Corbin leaned closer. The physical distance between them vanished. His broad chest hovered over the table, his icy blue eyes pinning her to her seat. "I don't find it boring at all," Corbin said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight through her chest. "A doctor's job is to explore the deepest, most hidden parts of the human body. To find exactly where it hurts. I find that... fascinating." The double meaning hit Hope like a physical blow. Her breath hitched. The memory of the examination room crashed over her again-the cold air, the stirrups, his intense focus. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She was completely outmatched. He was playing with her, and she was losing her mind. The waiter arrived, setting the expensive caviar down between them. Hope looked at the fish eggs, and her stomach violently rebelled. The pain in her pelvis throbbed in time with her racing pulse. She couldn't breathe. The air in the cafe felt suffocating. She pushed her chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I need to use the restroom," she blurted out, her voice cracking. Corbin didn't try to stop her. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly. He gestured toward the back of the cafe with an open palm. His eyes told her he knew exactly what she was doing. Hope grabbed her purse and practically ran toward the back of the restaurant. She pushed through the restroom door and leaned against the sink, gripping the porcelain edges until her knuckles ached. She stared at her wild, terrified eyes in the mirror. If she went back out there, she would shatter. She looked to her left. There was a heavy metal door marked Employees Only. Hope didn't hesitate. She pushed the bar and slipped into the dim, narrow hallway. She navigated past stacks of cardboard boxes and pushed open the back exit door. The heavy smell of garbage and stale rain hit her. She was in a dark alleyway. She didn't care. She ran. Her heels splashed into dirty puddles, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn't stop running until she was two blocks away, turning the corner onto a busy avenue. She leaned against a brick wall, her chest heaving, and looked back. No one was following her. She pulled her phone out of her purse. Her hands were still shaking as she opened the text thread with Beatrice. Zero chemistry, Hope typed furiously. He is an arrogant jerk. Do not ever give him my number again. She hit send. Then, she opened her recent calls, found the clinic's automated text confirming her appointment, and extracted Corbin's direct office number. She tapped Block this Caller. A prompt popped up. You will not receive phone calls, messages, or FaceTime from people on the block list. Hope hit Confirm. A rush of vindictive relief flooded her veins. She straightened her spine, took a deep breath of the city air, and walked down the subway stairs. It was over. She had escaped. Back in the cafe, fifteen minutes had passed. Corbin looked at the empty velvet seat across from him. He let out a low, dark chuckle. He raised his hand, signaling the waiter for the check. He didn't look at the bill. He dropped a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table as a tip, picked up his medical journal, and walked out of the cafe with slow, measured steps. A sleek black SUV was idling at the curb. Corbin climbed into the back seat. He pulled his phone from his suit pocket and dialed the number he had memorized from her medical chart an hour ago. The phone didn't even ring. It went straight to a generic voicemail greeting. Corbin's brow furrowed for a fraction of a second. Then, his eyes darkened, a dangerous, predatory light sparking in the icy blue depths. He tossed the phone onto the leather seat next to him and looked out the tinted window at the passing city lights. "Think you can run, little liar?" he murmured to the empty car.