The Loser Programmer Husband is a Quadrillionaire

CHAPTER 9

Clara sat across from John at the elegant restaurant table, her expression carefully composed even as anxiety gnawed at her insides. The signed contract lay between them like a small victory, but it felt hollow. She had made a deal with the devil, and the price was climbing higher with every passing second.

The moment John set down his pen, Clara stood up without another word. She didn't wait for him to say goodbye. She didn't acknowledge his knowing smile or the way he watched her leave. She simply gathered her portfolio and hurried out of the restaurant.

The drive back to the hospital felt endless. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. Guilt twisted inside her chest, writhing like a living thing. She had used Ethan's suffering to secure this deal. She had chosen money over honesty. She had betrayed the man who had given her everything.

But what choice did she have? Without capital, how could she afford the best doctors for Ethan? How could she ensure he received proper care? She was trying to save him, even if the methods were questionable. That was what she told herself as she navigated through traffic and raced toward the hospital.

When she reached the ward, her heart stopped.

The room was empty.

His bed was bare. The monitors were silent. The wheelchair that had sat beside the bed was gone. Clara stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the vacant space where her husband should have been.

"No, no, no," she whispered, her voice rising in panic. She rushed through the ward, checking every corner, every bathroom, every possible location. But there was no sign of Ethan anywhere.

She found the nearest nurse at the station, her voice sharp and frantic.

"Where is my husband? Ethan Morrison. He was in room 412. Where did they take him?" Clara demanded, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the counter.

The nurse looked up from her computer with a sympathetic expression. She seemed to recognize Clara, but there was something knowing in her eyes.

"Your husband was discharged about two hours ago," the nurse said slowly, her voice careful. "A stunning woman came to pick him up. She was very elegant, very authoritative. She had all the proper discharge papers signed by the doctors."

Clara's face went pale. Her mouth opened and closed. Discharged? By another woman?

"Did she say who she was?" Clara asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. Her mind was already spinning through possibilities, each one worse than the last.

"She didn't introduce herself. But from the way she spoke to him, and the way he responded..." the nurse trailed off, clearly uncomfortable continuing this line of conversation. Her gaze shifted away, focusing on the computer screen. "They seemed very close."

The implications crashed over Clara like a tidal wave. Ethan had left the hospital with another woman. He had left voluntarily, with discharge papers, which meant he had agreed to it. He had chosen to leave without telling her.

She pulled out her phone with shaking hands and dialed Ethan's number. It rang once. Twice. Then went to voicemail.

She tried again. Same result.

On the third attempt, the call didn't go through at all. A recorded message indicated that the number was blocked.

He had blocked her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Clara gripped the counter to steady herself. All around her, the hospital seemed to spin. The nurse was watching her with something that looked disturbingly like pity. Clara turned away abruptly, unable to bear the judgment in the woman's eyes.

Rage and despair warred inside her chest. What was Ethan doing? Who was this woman? Had he been cheating on her? Was this the reason he had been so distant, so cold? Had his entire emotional breakdown been an act while he was secretly involved with someone else?

She stood in the middle of the hospital hallway, her phone in her white-knuckled grip, and allowed herself to scream silently.

Across the city, Lena's private villa was a masterpiece of modern architecture perched on a hillside overlooking the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with natural light, and every room was appointed with the kind of luxury that spoke of old money and unlimited resources.

Lena wheeled Ethan into the master bedroom, which had been hastily converted into a medical suite. A adjustable hospital bed had been installed, along with physical therapy equipment and the kind of monitoring systems that rivaled the best hospitals in the country.

"I want you to know that you have nothing to worry about," Lena said firmly, her voice filled with quiet determination. She helped him transfer from the wheelchair to the bed with careful, practiced movements. "I've already consulted with Dr. James Hartford, who is widely considered the world's most authoritative orthopedic surgeon. He's reviewing your scans as we speak."

Ethan lay back against the pillows, feeling the soft Egyptian cotton against his skin. The bedroom was quiet, peaceful, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital environment he had just left. He looked at Lena, searching her face for answers.

"What did he say?" Ethan asked quietly, his voice hoarse from emotion.

Lena's expression softened. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and when she took his hand, her touch was gentle and reassuring.

"He said your condition is nowhere near as severe as the doctors at the hospital claimed," she said slowly, watching his face carefully for his reaction. Her eyes were bright, and there was something triumphant in her voice. "In fact, if you undergo surgery soon—and if it's performed by someone of his caliber—there's a ninety percent chance of a complete and full recovery."

Ethan stared at her, unable to process what he was hearing. Ninety percent. Not eighty percent mortality risk. Not a death sentence.

Ninety percent chance of recovery.

His mind struggled to reconcile this information with everything Clara had told him. She had said the surgery was too risky. She had insisted he shouldn't undergo it. She had promised to care for him indefinitely if he remained paralyzed.

Why would she lie about something like this?

The answer came to him slowly, settling over his mind like poison. She had wanted him to remain paralyzed. She had needed him to be dependent on her. A healthy Ethan, an Ethan who could walk again, would threaten her control over him. A paralyzed Ethan was a captive, bound to her by his own helplessness.

And she had made her deal with John while his body was supposedly broken beyond repair. She had sacrificed him to secure her company's future.

"When can we schedule the surgery?" Ethan asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands clenched into fists against the white sheets, his jaw working as he processed the full scope of Clara's betrayal. His fingers dug into the fabric so hard his nails left small marks.

"Dr. Hartford can have you in surgery within the week," Lena replied, squeezing his hand gently. "By next month, you should be beginning physical therapy. By the end of six months, you could be walking again."