Chapter 5 - The Masterclass of Suffering
Back in Vancouver General, Room 608 had become David Mercer’s personal circle of hell.
"Lift the leg. Three inches. Hold for fifteen seconds," Gunther commanded. His enormous arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze as unflinching as an executioner's.
"I can't!" David shrieked, tears of pure agony and humiliation streaming down his cheeks. His cast-iron legs trembled in their traction ropes. His hospital gown was soaked in sweat. "My femur is broken in three places! It feels like hot lead!"
"Pain is weakness leaving the bone," Gunther replied impassively. "Ten seconds remaining. If you drop the leg before the timer rings, we reset the count to thirty."
"You're a sadist! I'm calling the police!" David screamed, his voice cracking like an undisciplined child's.
"Police do not administer orthopedic therapy," Gunther noted, without an ounce of emotion. "Three seconds. Two. One. Rest. Now: right arm curls with the five-pound resistance band. Emily completed her sets twenty minutes ago."
On the other side of the room, Emily was sitting quietly in an armchair, sipping lukewarm tap water and meticulously eating her steamed broccoli. She didn't look at David. Whenever David tried to catch her eye, she looked away as if he were an infected stray dog.
David collapsed back onto his thin pillow, panting heavily. His satellite phone was gone—he couldn't find it anywhere after his nap. His personal iPhone buzzed on the bedside table.
With shaking, blistered fingers, he snatched it up. It was a video call from Clara.
David’s face twisted in savage triumph. Finally. The submissive housewife had broken. She was calling to beg for the ten thousand dollars for Lily’s treatment.
He answered, instantly summoning every drop of venom left in his broken body. "Clara! You pathetic bitch! You call off this psycho caregiver right now! Do you have any idea what he’s doing to me?! I will make sure you and Lily are sleeping on the street by the end of the—"
The screen flickered to life.
Clara was not weeping. She was not sitting in the fluorescent gloom of a pediatric ICU.
She was sitting in a sun-drenched private suite at St. Jude’s Premier Recovery Pavilion. In the background, Lily was sitting up in bed, happily eating strawberries and watching cartoons, her cheeks rosy, laughing at a cartoon duck. Beside Clara stood Dr. Vance and two registered nurses carrying fresh flowers.
Clara looked radiant. Her hair was styled, her makeup flawless, and she was wearing a bespoke cream-colored wool coat that David had forbidden her from buying three years ago.
"Hello, David," she said smoothly.
David’s voice caught in his throat. "What... how are you in the Premier Pavilion? That wing requires a twenty-five-thousand-dollar deposit!"
"Paid in full, David," Clara smiled, leaning toward the camera. "Along with her private pediatric respiratory specialist, her private physical therapist, and a five-hundred-thousand-dollar endowment to the hospital's research wing in my mother’s name."
"Where did you get that money?!" David gasped, panic clawing at his chest. "You stole from my corporate reserve! You hacked my accounts!"
"My mother’s malpractice settlement cleared on Tuesday, David," Clara said, her voice dropping into a register of exquisite, devastating satisfaction. "Five million dollars. Entirely mine. Protected under pre-marital trust legislation. You don't own me anymore, David. You never will again."
"You... you lying whore!" David screamed, jerking against his traction slings, sending a bolt of agony through his fractured pelvis. "I’ll divorce you! I’ll take every penny of that settlement! My lawyers will rip you apart!"
"Oh, David," Clara chuckled, shaking her head with genuine pity. "You won't be paying your lawyers. You won't even be able to pay for your return flight."
"What are you talking about?!"
"Check your email," Clara said softly. "Martin Cole just had a very long lunch with the Securities and Exchange Commission. It’s amazing how quickly your Chief Financial Officer flips when he’s shown twenty-four forged wire authorizations with his name on them."
David’s phone chimed with an emergency notification from his banking portal.
*Account Frozen: Mercer-Cole Venture Trust.*
*Account Frozen: Vance Strategic Holdings (Grand Cayman).*
*Account Frozen: David Mercer Personal Premier Reserve.*
A red banner flashed across his banking app: *FROZEN BY ORDER OF THE SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW YORK DISTRICT COURT.*
David’s jaw hung open. Blood drained from his face until he was as white as his plaster casts. "No... no, no, no... Martin wouldn't... Emily! Emily, where is my briefcase?!"
Emily didn't answer. She quietly put on her coat, picked up her handbag with her good arm, and walked toward the door.
"Emily!" David screamed, flailing his good arm in desperation. "Where are you going?! Get back here! Help me!"
Emily paused at the door, glancing back at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
"I signed a cooperation agreement with Clara’s legal team an hour ago, David," Emily said quietly. "They agreed to pay for my wrist surgery and grant me immunity. You’re on your own."
The door clicked shut.
David was alone. Trapped in his traction harness, unable to move his legs, staring at the frozen screen of his drained bank accounts.
Gunther stepped forward, towering over the bed, holding a giant jar of medicinal cream.
"Time for afternoon bed-sore treatment," Gunther said, his voice flat and terrifying. "Roll onto your side."
"I... I can't pay you anymore," David whimpered, tears of absolute ruin spilling down his cheeks. "My accounts are frozen... I have no money..."
Gunther smiled for the very first time. It was the coldest thing David had ever seen.
May you like
"Your wife paid for three full weeks in advance," Gunther said, snapping on a latex glove with a loud *thwack*. "Non-refundable. Now: roll."
***
