Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 337 The fertility clinic felt more like a luxury spa than a medical office. Neutral-toned walls, sleek modern furniture, and a reception area that radiated quiet professionalism, exactly the kind of place meant to inspire confidence, and yet somehow it only made my nerves worse. I held Nate's hand tighter than necessary as we waited to be called, my leg bouncing nonstop in a very obvious display of anxiety. "It's going to be okay," Nate whispered in my ear, squeezing my hand back. "This is just an initial consultation." I know," I said, though my voice came out higher than usual.

"It's just... what if it doesn't work? What if it's too complicated? What if my body doesn't respond well to the hormones?" Before Nate could answer my spiraling questions, a nurse appeared at the reception desk and called our names. We followed her down a quiet hallway into a spacious office, where a middle-aged woman with gray hair pulled into an elegant bun and a warm smile was waiting for us. "I'm Dr. Patricia Whitmore," she said, greeting us with a firm handshake.

"Please, have a seat and tell me how I can help." Nate began explaining his medical history-the mumps in childhood, the infertility diagnosis, the recent tests that had revealed possibilities dismissed decades ago. I listened as he repeated information I already knew, yet my heart still raced with every word. "Your test results are encouraging," Dr. Whitmore said, flipping through the documents Nate had brought." Your sperm count is low, but it's not zero.

With ICSI, intracytoplasmic sperm injection, we only need one viable sperm per egg." "And the chances?" I asked immediately, unable to contain my anxiety. "What are the odds that it works?" "There are many variables that affect success rates," the doctor explained patiently. "The woman's age, egg quality, response to medication, sperm quality. In your case, you're young, apparently healthy, and you have the resources for multiple attempts if necessary. That puts you in a favorable position." "But a number," I pressed. "Like... fifty percent? Seventy?" Dr. Whitmore smiled with understanding.

relief washed over me. They weren't guarantees, but they were real,

were mature, a procedure to retrieve them. Fertilization in the lab. And finally, the transfer of the resulting embryos. "The full timeline is about six to eight weeks for one complete cycle," Dr. Whitmore continued, pointing to a colorful

was taking notes in a small notebook he'd brought, his expression focused as he tried to absorb every detail. "And the side effects?" I asked, voicing the worry that had been sitting with me since we first considered treatment. "Am I going to feel awful?" "Every woman responds differently," the doctor

questions or address concerns as they come up." "It sounds... intense," I murmured, trying to process everything. "It is a treatment that requires commitment," Dr. Whitmore agreed. "But you'll have strong support every step of the way." A question I'd been holding back finally pushed its way out. "Can we... celebrate?" I asked hesitantly. Dr. Whitmore

I was asking and let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "She's asking about sex," he clarified, still smiling. "Whether we can have sex normally during treatment." "Oh!" Dr. Whitmore laughed too, clearly used to nervous couples dancing around important questions." Excellent, and very important question. For now, yes, you

We'll give you very clear instructions on when to pause and when you can resume.' "So it's not the entire process," I confirmed, another weight lifting off my chest. 11 "Definitely not," she reassured me. "In fact, we encourage couples to