Investigated Billionaire - The Complete Series Box Set (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Claire Adams

  “It’s fine,” she says in a tiny voice. “I was just kidding.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, doing my best to hide the fact that I can see, hear, and feel her deepening realization that’s she’s just that sick.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I mean what kind of freak breaks into and old scrap yard of amusement park rides to climb to the top of the Ferris wheel? Of course, I’m joking.”

  “I meant what I said,” I tell her. “In a couple of weeks, before your next round, I’ll come back here with you and we’ll make it to that top car together, okay?”

  “You’re not listening to me,” she says coldly. “I told you that I was making a joke. I’m obviously too weak to do that now, and even if I wasn’t, it would be a monumentally stupid idea, anyway. Can we just go?”

  “There’s other stuff we can find,” I tell her. “We just got here.”

  “It’s getting late,” she says. “I’m getting tired. That chemo just drags it out of you, doesn’t it?”

  “Okay,” I tell her, “I’ll take you home, then.”

  I did the right thing, and I know that. Even she knows that, but it doesn’t change the fact that what’s going on in her body just became a whole lot more real than it ever was before.

  As a doctor, this is an important thing, though rarely a pleasant experience for anyone involved. False hope only leads to a harder crash, and as tempting as it can be to let a person think they’re doing better than they are or that their treatment isn’t taking as much out of them as they’d like to believe, the right thing to do is be straightforward and take the hit sooner.

  It’s better in the long run.

  But it’s in this moment that I realize that I’ve been doing the same thing that Grace wanted to do in climbing to the top of that Ferris wheel. I’ve been pretending that it’s still okay that I’m her doctor — that the friendship we’re developing or whatever else it may turn into down the road isn’t going to affect my judgment when it comes to her treatment.

  Today, I received a group email from the dean of medicine at the hospital regarding a new clinical trial and I already know that I’m going to sign her up for it. That wouldn’t be a big deal if it weren’t for the fact that the trial is specifically for oligodendroglioma patients who have lived with the diagnosis or are otherwise known to have had the condition for at least five years, for whom chemo and radiation have had little to no impact.

  I told myself I’d just be taking my first step back toward being true to myself, doing what I know to be right regardless of how it looks to others. Now, though, it’s starting to set in that my growing affection for Grace, this patient of mine, has just put me in a position to lose my job, possibly my license to practice medicine.

  Administrators don’t look too kindly on falsifying medical records to get a patient into a trial and that’s what I’m going to have to do to make it happen.

  Still, though, as I catch up to her, trying to cheer her up, I know the damage is already done. I can’t stand to see that look on her face again, and I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure I don’t have to.

  “Grace,” I start, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Under the Radar

  Grace

  It’s been a week since Jace told me about the clinical trial.

  At first, I was just thrilled that there might be something that could change the course of the rest of my life, but once he let slip what he would have to do to get me in, I tried to back out of it.

  I know what kind of a risk he’s taking in doing what he’s doing, but he had a point when he told me that while chemo may extend my life, though there are no guarantees on even that; without some other intervening factor, chances are I’ve already lived more than half my life.

  That’s a hell of a motivator.

  He’s coming over tonight and we’re going to go over the kinds of things I’m going to have to know when I give “my history” to the doctors running the trial.

  Right now, Yuri’s here, keeping me company.

  We’ve gotten pretty close over the last while, and it’s nice to have someone who’s not an employee to share my thoughts and feelings with. It helps that she’s almost as crazy as I am.

  “So, are you going to go through with it?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I think I have to. I know it’s a risk for the doc, but with my life actually hanging in the balance-”

  “It’s not the risk to him that I’m worried about,” Yuri says. “Okay, he’s my boss and if he loses his license, I lose my job. And, of course, I actually respect him and I would hate to see something bad happen to him, but Grace, I’ve seen countless patients who’ve gone through clinical trials. Sometimes they come out the other side better off for their inclusion, but a lot of times it goes the other way.”

  “Well, if it weren’t safe, they wouldn’t test it on people, would they?”

  “They wouldn’t knowingly test a drug they knew to be more harmful than helpful,” she answers. “At least, that’s what I like to think, but you’ve got to understand that you’re in one of the very first test groups for this drug. There’s a lot they don’t know about it.”

  “It’s worth a shot, though,” I tell her. “If anything goes the wrong way, they’ll take me off of it, right?”

  “Yeah, but a lot of times, they don’t know that something’s going the wrong way until it’s already past the point of no return. You could lose years of your life or you could develop new symptoms, symptoms that may or may not respond to treatment. I just want to make sure you’re going into this with all of the facts.”

  “Hey, on the bright side, they might put me on the placebo,” I laugh, trying to cover my trepidation.

  “That’s true,” she says, “but in that case, you’re going to be risking Dr. Churchill’s job, reputation, and license over something that’s not actually going to help you.”

  “So you don’t think I should do it?”

  “I’m not saying that,” she says. “I’m just saying that I want you to be prepared that this might not go the way you’re hoping it will, the way Dr. Churchill and I are hoping it will.”

  There’s a knock on the door, and I get up to answer it.

  “He’s probably going to tell you a lot of what I’ve been telling you,” Yuri says, “but I can’t be sure of that.”

  “Why wouldn’t he tell me?” I ask.

  “I know he’s got a soft spot when it comes to you. He likes you, and I wanted to make absolutely certain that somebody told you the things you need to know before you make a firm commitment to this.”

  “Are you staying? He knows we’re friends, it’s all right.”

  “I’ll say hi,” she says, “but I think I should leave the two of you to go over the details — plausible deniability and all that.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll call you later and let you know how it goes.”

  She nods and gets to the door. Answering it, she says, “She’s inside. Don’t sugarcoat this.”

  “I won’t,” Jace answers. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Yuri.”

  The door closes and I’m sitting down again when he comes into the room.

  “She knows that she can’t be seen to have had any part of this, right?” I ask him.

  “Of course,” he says. “The last thing I’d want to do would be to put her at risk with what we’re doing.”

  “So tell me,” I start, “what kind of results have other trials of this drug had?”

  “There’s not a lot of data yet,” he says. “An earlier form of the drug was recalled before trials were over because it was shown to actually cause patients with grade two oligodendroglioma to progress to grade three.”

  “I’m guessing that’s the wrong direction?” I ask, knowing very well what grade three means. It means that my chance of being alive in five years would be cut in half.

  “Yeah,” he says. “They did another trial of this version of the
drug, and it’s shown some improvement in over sixty percent of patients, thirty percent over placebo.”

  “That’s so weird,” I muse.

  “What’s that?”

  “That thirty percent of people get better when they’re told they’re getting something that would make them better,” I tell him. “Maybe you should start handing out sugar pills along with your other treatments.”

  “The problem with the placebo effect,” he explains, “is that it usually doesn’t last for any significant period of time. After a while, patients stop making the improvements and they return to where they were before they were on placebo in the first place.”

  “Still,” I tell him, “that’s got to buy some time at least, right?”

  “Grace, there are some things I need you to know when it comes to trials like this one,” he starts.

  “Yuri filled me in.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “That these drugs are experimental, that there’s no guarantee that they’re going to help or even that I’m going to be on the real drug. She told me that sometimes the drug actually makes things worse and could end up costing me a lot of the time I have left,” I answer.

  “Yeah,” he says, “that’s all true. Another thing I need to tell you is that at the end of the trial, even if you are improving, assuming that you are on the real drug, they’re more than likely going to take you off of it. The best we can hope for here is that the drug makes an improvement in your condition significant enough that it’s more likely to be eradicated or suppressed longer by your other treatment.”

  “Am I still going to be on chemo?”

  “No,” he says. “You’ve had your last chemo treatment for a while.”

  “But I will go back to it no matter what?”

  “I think that’s the most realistic scenario,” he tells me. “Chances of complete remission, even if this drug does exactly what it’s supposed to, are very slim. I just wanted you to know that before we go any further with this.”

  “Are you scared?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re putting a lot on the line getting me into this trial,” I tell him. “Yeah, I’m the one having an experimental drug put in my body, but I’m not the only one who’s risking something here.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t really thought about that part of it that much.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” I chortle. “You know that?”

  “Actually I do,” he answers. “Now, I’ve called in a favor from one of my old professors — he’s still a practicing oncologist. I told him the situation and, after a great deal of convincing and assuring him that I’d owe him a few favors in return, he agreed to act as the diagnosing doctor in your case.”

  “How’s that going to work?” I ask. “Are you just going to copy my newer scans and say they’re my older scans?”

  “That’s part of it,” Jace says, “but we’re going to have to give you five years’ worth of scans and that in itself has risks.”

  “What?” I ask, “Are you saying I might get radiation poisoning or something?”

  “No,” he answers. “MRIs don’t use ionizing radiation. In fact, they’re safe enough. We will do a CT scan, but only one. The risk is that we get caught while we’re doing this. The biggest risk, at this point anyway, is that I get caught altering the dates on your scans.”

  “How do you do that, anyway?”

  “It’s simple enough,” he answers, “but the problem is that the hospital archives hold the records for all scans. The date on the film itself may be changed, but the file itself, at least in the hospital’s database will show the date and time the scans were actually made.”

  “So we’re fucked right out of the gate,” I sigh.

  “Not necessarily,” he answers. “Without any reason for someone to go looking through your scans, they’re never going to see the discrepancy. That’s why we’ve got to do everything by the book, even while we’re not.”

  “You kind of contradicted yourself there, chief.”

  “What I’m saying,” he explains, “is that we’re going to have to make sure you’re scheduled for your scans and that there’s some reason why you’re in there long enough to get everything we need. I’ve already come up with something that should fit the bill, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to give you a sample of hydroxyzine,” he says. “It’s an anti-anxiety medication. One of the side-effects is restless leg syndrome. We’re going to want to do a blood draw with it in your system just to be on the safe side, but we’ll do that before your scans so we can make sure that it’s under control before you actually go in, as we do want to get clear scans and that’s never going to happen if your lower body’s jerking the whole time.”

  “So you’re going to put me on a drug that I don’t need so that we have a cause for a side-effect that I’m not actually going to develop because you’re going to give me something else to counteract it before we take the scans that we’re going to use to provide a history to fraudulently get me into the trial?” I ask.

  “I know, it sounds overboard, but we’re-” he starts.

  “Oh no,” I interrupt, “I’m fine with it. I’m just making sure I’m clear on what we’re doing.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “that’s right.”

  “Cool,” I smile. “What happens if you get caught? Would you definitely lose your license?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s definite or not,” he says. “The penalty for this kind of thing can range from suspension, to being unable to put forth any more candidates for clinical trials, to having my salary docked, to, yes, losing my license to practice medicine.”

  “In that case, I have just one more question,” I tell him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why are you doing this? You have a lot of patients, and I know I’m a consistently arousing presence in the lives of many, but is that really a good enough reason to risk everything?”

  He smiles and asks, “You’re a strange woman, you know that, Grace?”

  “I like to think I’m just ahead of the curve,” I answer. “Seriously, though. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to give you every opportunity to get better,” he says. “Even if it’s a long shot, I want you to have a chance to be around for a long time to come.”

  “But like I said, you have a lot of other patients. Have you done this for anyone else?”

  “No,” he admits.

  “Then why are you doing this now?” I ask. “Why are you taking these risks for me?”

  “Because I think the world is a more interesting place with you in it,” he says. “Because so often in my job, there’s simply nothing more I can do for a patient. Because,” he pauses, looking away bashfully, “I like you.”

  “I am pretty fuckable,” I tell him.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Oh, so I’m not fuckable?”

  I wonder if he’s noticed that I tend to be at my most suggestive when I’m feeling nervous or vulnerable.

  “When do we start?” I ask.

  “Start what?” he returns.

  With a laugh, I say, “The scans and everything. I’m assuming I’m probably going to need to meet this doctor friend of yours at some point, too?”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he says. “I’ve got you scheduled for an MRI in the morning. I wouldn’t plan anything for a couple of hours, though. We’re going to have to do it at least a dozen times and, even going as fast as possible with it,” he says, “it’s still going to take some time.”

  “All right,” I tell him. “I think I’d be all right doing it with you at least a dozen times, though I’m not sure we’re going to want to ‘go as fast as possible with it.’ Some things take time and care.”

  He’s smiling, blushing, and I’m wondering if he’s finally kicked that pin cushion to the curb.

  “What ever hap
pened with you and your pair of fake tits?” I ask.

  “You know she has a name,” he says.

  “I’m sure she does,” I respond. “Are you still her cuckold?”

  He sighs. “I don’t think it’s going to work out,” he says. “We haven’t really talked since we had our argument, not about anything important or personal anyway. Then, after I got that text from her boss-”

  “Yeah, you told me that,” I tell him. “What you didn’t tell me was what it said.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever’s going on with the two of them is still going on and probably has been for a long time. I was really hoping we could work it out, but-”

  “Why?” I interrupt.

  “Why what?”

  “Why were you hoping you could work it out? I mean, I can understand it if it was only the one time, but if it’s something that’s ongoing, even after she told you that she was done with all that — I don’t know, I just don’t see why you’re still hanging onto a relationship like that.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess it’s just that we’ve been together for a few years. She was there when I graduated med school. I guess I just thought that meant something.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “It meant that she had a lot of time to spread her legs. Let me see the text from her boss.”

  “Why?”

  “I just want to see it,” I tell him.

  I have an idea.

  “I don’t know what it’ll prove, but all right,” he says and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

  He finds the message and hands it to me.

  “‘I want to have sex tonight,’” I read aloud. “He sounds like quite the charmer.”

  “What are you doing?” he asks as I start typing a new message.

  “Is she home?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “If you know where she is, I think we just might be able to find you some vindication,” I answer.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “She’s home,” he says. “At least, she was when I left.”