BILLIONAIRE COULDN’T GET IT UP FOR 10YRS UNTIL HE MET A STRANGE VIRGIN INTERN DOCTOR & THIS..
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The Billionaire Who Couldn’t Get It Up for 10 Years—Until He Met a Strange Virgin Intern Doctor
Ethan Badmas sat in the corner office of Badmas Towers’ 25th floor, staring at the Lagos skyline like it had offended him personally.
The view was spectacular. From up here, Victoria Island lay beneath him like a kingdom he had conquered. Expensive cars crawled through traffic like shiny toys. People were dots. Everything looked small, manageable, almost unreal.
Everything except his problem.
At thirty‑three, Ethan had what most Nigerian men dreamed about. He was tall—six foot three—with the kind of gym‑sculpted frame that made clothes obey him. Custom‑tailored suits hung on him like they’d been born there. His dark brown skin had that even, polished glow that made women stop mid‑sentence. His jawline was sharp enough to cut through lies.
His bank accounts had more zeros than a mathematics textbook.
He owned three hotels, two restaurants, a tech company, and a chain of luxury car dealerships. Forbes had called him one of Africa’s most eligible bachelors. Instagram loved him: 2.3 million followers, thousands of likes whenever he posted so much as a coffee cup.
His grandmother called every day, asking when he was going to get married.
And none of it meant anything.
Because for ten years, Ethan’s manhood had been on permanent vacation.
No erection. Not in the morning. Not in his sleep. Not with the most beautiful women. Not with medication. Nothing.
His body had retired from active service without giving him notice.
He picked up his phone and read his grandmother’s latest message for the fifth time.
Ethan, my darling grandson, when are you bringing a wife home? I am not getting younger. Do you want me to die before I carry your children? Mrs. Ademiyi’s grandson just got married last weekend. The wedding was beautiful. When is yours? Call me. I am waiting.
He dropped the phone and rubbed his face with both hands.
Ten years ago, everything had been fine. Better than fine.
At twenty‑three, he’d been a university student with more energy than sense and a girlfriend who kept him very busy. His body had been an obedient servant.
Then came the accident.
His father had been driving, one hand on the steering wheel, the other gesturing as he told some story. His mother had been in the passenger seat laughing. Ethan had been in the back, scrolling his phone.
Then the truck.
The screech of tires, the horrible crunch of metal against metal, the world spinning sideways, his mother’s scream, then darkness.
When Ethan woke up three days later in the hospital, his parents were gone.
Just like that.
Gone.
The doctor said he was lucky to be alive. Lucky. He had broken ribs, a fractured leg, cuts everywhere, internal injuries that needed two surgeries. But he survived. The bones healed. The cuts became scars. The pain gradually faded.
Something else, though, never came back.
His manhood had died in that accident, and nobody had told him.
At first, he didn’t notice. Grief swallowed everything. He was twenty‑three with a funeral to plan and a company to inherit. Suddenly he was the head of the family, the acting CEO, the one everyone looked at for answers.
Dating was the last thing on his mind.
But time moved. The first year passed. He tried to connect with women again. Tried to be intimate. His body refused.
He told himself it was stress.
After a few more humiliating attempts, he went to the hospital.
The urologist ordered tests. Blood work. Hormone checks. Ultrasounds.
Physically, everything looked fine.
“It’s psychological,” the man in the white coat said, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve been through trauma. Trauma can do this. Give it time. Sometimes these things resolve on their own.”
Time did not resolve it.
Two years passed. Three. Five. Seven.
His body remained silent.
He travelled to Turkey to see a specialist whose shelves were lined with books about male dysfunction. The tests were repeated.
“Mr. Badmas,” the specialist said. “Your physiology is excellent. This is in your mind.”
In India, he tried Ayurvedic treatments. Bitter herbs that tasted like punishment. Oils that smelled like old forests. Yoga on a mat beside a fountain.
Nothing.
In South Africa, he lay on a table while someone stuck needles into him like a human pincushion.
His body remained unimpressed.
Back in Nigeria, he tried everything else.
A famous prophet in Ibadan prayed over him for three hours straight and gave him anointing oil that smelled suspiciously like engine grease. A herbalist in Benin handed him roots to boil and drink. A mallam in Kano wrote verses on a slate, washed them off with water, and told him to drink that too.
Still nothing.
His oldest friend, Austin, was the only person who knew the whole truth.
“Guy, have you tried just relaxing?” Austin asked once, sprawled on Ethan’s leather sofa, beer in hand. “Maybe you’re thinking about it too much.”
“I’ve tried everything,” Ethan snapped. “Not thinking about it. Thinking about it. Alcohol. Exercise. Videos. Candles. Prayer. Meditation. Nothing works. My body is broken.”
Austin’s joking expression disappeared.
“Man… I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“Nobody can,” Ethan said quietly. “Nobody understands what it’s like to be a man who can’t be a man.”
Ten years later, the brokenness still sat in his chest like lead.
His phone buzzed again.
Another message from Grandma. He didn’t open it.
Instead, he stood and walked to the window.
Below, Lagos moved like a living beast—cars honking, vendors shouting, pedestrians weaving through small spaces. Life was happening everywhere.
Except inside his pants.
His phone rang.
Austin.
“What,” Ethan said.
“Good afternoon to you too, sir,” Austin replied. “Guy, I just saw the funniest thing online. This woman—”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re never in the mood. Which is kind of the point,” Austin said. “Listen. I know you’ll say no, but hear me out. My cousin’s wife’s sister—”
“Oh God.”
“—knows this doctor. Our own specialist. He handles… you know… bedroom issues. Very discreet. Maybe try him?”
“I’ve seen a million doctors,” Ethan said. “They all say the same thing.”
“Just try one more time, bro,” Austin insisted. “What do you have to lose?”
Everything, Ethan thought.
But he said, “Fine. Send me the details.”
“Already sent on WhatsApp. Name is Dr. Kunle. City General Hospital. Very respected. Just go and talk.”
Ethan hung up and checked his messages. The contact was there.
He stared at the name for a long time.
One more doctor.
One more attempt.
What was one more layer on an already thick wall of disappointment?
He dialed.
“City General Hospital, Dr. Kunle’s office,” a receptionist answered.
He set an appointment.
He felt both stupid and strangely hopeful.
He hated that.
The Intern
On the other side of Lagos, in a crowded hospital corridor that smelled of disinfectant, sweat, and anxiety, Dr. Eunice “Winnie” Okafor was having the worst day of her life.
It was only 2 p.m.
At twenty‑six, Winnie was fresh out of medical school, halfway through her internship at City General. She’d dreamed of this for years—white coat, stethoscope, the ability to save lives with knowledge and steady hands.
She should have been thrilled.
Instead, she was constantly exhausted.
And people wouldn’t stop looking at her.
Winnie was the kind of beautiful that caused fights. Big brown eyes that looked like they’d been drawn on carefully. Full lips that curved naturally upward. High cheekbones, smooth dark skin, and curves that made hospital scrubs look tailored.
She knew how she looked. It wasn’t arrogance; it was survival. She couldn’t ignore something that everyone commented on daily.
“Ah, Dr. Winnie, you’re so fine.”
“Doctor, are you single? Let’s go for dinner.”
“Why are you forming? Don’t you like money? I have two cars.”
Male doctors wanted to date her. Male nurses wanted to date her. Some male patients took shots at flirting even while wheezing on oxygen.
“Doctor, my blood pressure rises only when you come.”
It was exhausting.
She didn’t come here to be admired. She came to work.
She had fought through long nights of studying, grueling exams, moments of doubt. She had sacrificed sleep, parties, relationships. Now, instead of being judged on her diagnostic skills, she was being treated like a model on a runway.
She had turned down every single advance.
She wasn’t interested. She had goals.
And she had a secret no one suspected.
At twenty‑six, she was still a virgin.
Not because she was particularly religious. Not because she’d sworn to wait for marriage. But because she hadn’t yet found anyone she trusted that deeply.
She wasn’t going to give her body to someone who just wanted to sample her. She wanted it to mean something. The right person hadn’t come.
She was fine waiting.
That afternoon, her supervisor, Dr. Oladipo, called her into his office.
He was in his early fifties, married, with the kind face of someone who’d spent years delivering unwelcome news gently. He’d always been professional with her. Never flirted. Never made her uncomfortable.
“Come in, Dr. Winnie,” he said warmly. “Please, sit. I want to review some cases with you. Will be good learning.”
She sat, pulling out her notebook.
“You’re one of our most promising interns,” he said. “Very hardworking. Dedicated.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You look tired. Have you been sleeping?”
“Not much. Extra shifts, sir.”
“Ah. You young doctors.” He chuckled. “Always trying to kill yourselves. Here—have some tea. Chamomile. Very good for nerves. It will help you relax.”
He poured from a kettle into a cup and slid it toward her.
She hesitated for half a second.
Why would she distrust him? He was her supervisor. A respected consultant. A man with daughters older than her.
She took the cup.
The tea was warm, floral, slightly sweet.
He started talking through cases—an old man with heart failure, a teenage girl with sickle cell, a pregnant woman with high blood pressure. Winnie took notes diligently.
About ten minutes later, something changed.
She felt warm.
Not the normal kind of warm after hot tea. Something else. A slow heat radiated from her stomach outward, into her limbs, up into her chest, down, lower.
Her skin tingled.
Her heart rate increased.
“And that’s why we need to be careful with the dosing,” Dr. Oladipo said. “Dr. Winnie? Are you following?”
She blinked. His face blurred for a second. The edges of the room seemed too sharp, too bright.
“Yes, sir,” she said, but her voice sounded far away in her own ears.
She tried to focus on his words. She couldn’t. The warmth in her core intensified.
It wasn’t just warmth now.
It was a pulsing, throbbing need.
Her breathing shallowed. Sweat prickled at her hairline. Her legs pressed together instinctively.
“Winnie?” he asked. “You’re flushed. Are you okay?”
She looked at him—and saw his expression shift.
Concern slipped. Something else shone underneath. His eyes dropped to her chest, her legs, her lips. He smiled slightly.
Not a kind smile.
A knowing one.
The tea.
Oh God.
He had put something in the tea.
Panic surged through her.
She tried to stand.
Her legs wobbled.
“I… I need to go,” she managed. “I don’t feel—”
“You’re fine,” he said quickly. “You’ve been working too hard. Sit. It will pass.”
“No.”
Every nerve felt like it was on fire. Her hands shook as she grabbed the edge of his desk. The heat between her thighs was unbearable, raw and alien. She felt like her own body was turning against her.
She stumbled toward the door.
“Doctor Winnie, wait,” he called. “Come back. We’re not finished. You need rest—here—”
She threw the door open and staggered into the corridor.
Bright lights assaulted her eyes. Voices mingled: nurses calling orders, machines beeping, patients groaning.
Someone shouted her name.
“Dr. Winnie? Are you okay? You look—”
She kept moving, hands scraping along the wall for support. Every brush of fabric against her skin felt amplified. She was aware of every inch of her body in a way that was terrifying.
“Jesus Christ,” said a familiar voice.
Matron Bisi.
The older woman rushed toward her.
“Dr. Winnie, you are burning up. You’re drenched.”
“I… I…” Winnie gasped. Words refused to form.
“You’ve been working nonstop,” Matron scolded. “I warned you. Come. You need rest. Now.”
“But I—”
“No argument.”
The matron practically dragged her toward the staff elevator.
VIP Room 2 is empty,” she said. “Go there. Lie down. Lock the door. Sleep for one hour. That is an order.”
Winnie nodded weakly.
The elevator doors closed.
She leaned against the wall, trembling. The heat inside her was not subsiding. If anything, it grew worse by the second.
Her mind screamed: Get away from his office. Get away from everyone. Lock the door. Breathe.
The elevator dinged.
The VIP floor was quiet, carpeted, dimmer, designed for rich patients who didn’t want to hear the groans of the rest of the hospital.
She stumbled down the hall.
VIP Room 2.
The door was ajar.
Matron had said it was empty.
She pushed it open and lurched inside.
There was a bed.
On the bed lay a man.
The Room
Ethan had been lying on the VIP bed for half an hour, trying not to think about how ridiculous he felt in a hospital gown.
He was used to controlling rooms, not waiting in them.
He’d checked in under a discreet file. Dr. Kunle had been called away to an emergency surgery. They told Ethan it would be thirty minutes.
He flipped through channels on the TV without seeing anything.
He was here.
Again.
Trying.
Again.
He closed his eyes, took deep breaths, tried to calm the anxiety creeping up his spine.
The door flew open.
He sat up, startled.
A woman in a doctor’s coat stumbled in.
She was stunning.
Even through his anxiety, he noticed. Big eyes. Full lips. Curls escaping a bun. Sweat glistening on her forehead. Her coat sat slightly off her shoulders, her badge askew.
But something was wrong.
Her pupils were dilated. Her breathing ragged. She looked like she had run up twenty flights of stairs and then jumped into a sauna.
“Um,” Ethan said cautiously. “I think you have the wrong—”
She lunged.
One moment she was by the door; the next she was on the bed, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth on his.
She kissed him like a starving person who’d just found food.
Her fingers clutched at his face, his neck, the flimsy fabric of his gown. She pressed herself against him as if she was trying to merge with him.
“Wait—” he tried. “Doctor—”
Her mouth swallowed his words. A soft, desperate sound broke from her throat. Her whole body trembled.
His brain yelled Stop this. Something is wrong. Call someone. Push her away.
Then his body did something it hadn’t done in ten years.
It responded.
A rush of heat.
A stirring.
An impossible tightening.
No.
No.
It can’t be.
But it was.
His body was waking up.
He grabbed her shoulders, intending to push her back, to ask what was happening—but the feel of her, the scent of her skin, the pressure of her against him sent shocks through him.
Ten years of nothing. Ten years of trying and failing. Ten years of feeling less than a man.
And suddenly it was as if a dam had burst.
She was shaking, almost sobbing into his mouth.
This is wrong, he thought. She’s not in her right mind. You should stop.
He tried again.
“Are you okay? Doctor?”
She only clung tighter.
Her hands yanked at the ties of his hospital gown. His fingers, traitors, tangled in her hair.
The world narrowed to the bed, the heat, her.
He would hate himself later for not stopping it sooner.
In that moment, all he felt was overwhelming, head‑spinning relief.
They came together in a blur: clumsy, desperate, wild, nothing like romance, everything like survival.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
Hours blurred into a haze of heat and movement, breathless gasps, the creak of springs, soft cries.
His body kept working.
He could hardly believe it was his.
Finally, they collapsed side by side, panting. His muscles felt like he’d run a marathon.
He turned his head.
She lay with her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed. A damp curl stuck to her forehead.
His gaze dropped to the name tag that had slipped free onto the sheet.
Dr. Eunice Winnie.
He whispered the name in his mind.
Who are you?
He wanted to ask.
He wanted to tell her everything—about the accident, about ten years of humiliation, about how she had just set him free and had no idea.
His eyelids grew heavy.
Just a few minutes. I’ll rest a few minutes. Then we’ll talk. Then I’ll ask.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep dragged him under.
When he woke, the room was dim.
His phone said 6:47 p.m.
He’d been out for hours.
He sat up, wincing at the protest of his muscles.
He turned.
The bed beside him was empty.
Her coat was gone. Her shoes, gone. No name tag on the sheets now. No sign of her except the rumpled duvet and the scent of unfamiliar perfume.
She had vanished.
There was a knock.
“Mr. Badmas?” Dr. Kunle’s voice. “My apologies for the delay. The surgery ran long. Are you still available for your consultation?”
Ethan stared at the door.
Available?
He looked down.
At his body.
Everything that had refused to respond for a decade now sat quietly, heavy and very much functional.
He swallowed a laugh.
“Actually, doctor,” he called, scrambling for his clothes. “Something came up. I’ll… reschedule.”
“Are you sure?” the doctor asked from the hallway. “We really should examine—”
“I’m sure,” Ethan said. “Thank you.”
He dressed as quickly as his sore body allowed and left the room, moving down the corridor in a daze.
He had walked into the hospital broken.
He was walking out… whole.
He also had a thousand new questions and a name lodged in his mind.
Dr. Eunice Winnie.
Aftermath
The next day, Ethan returned to the hospital.
He went straight to the nurses’ station.
“Good morning,” he said, putting on his most disarming smile. “I’m looking for a doctor. Dr. Eunice Winnie. Is she on duty today?”
The nurse checked the roster.
“Dr. Winnie…” She frowned. “She’s not in today.”
“When will she be back?” Ethan asked.
“I’m not sure. Let me call the department head.”
Ten minutes later, the head of internal medicine, a woman in her fifties with serious eyes, arrived.
“I’m Dr. Adetola,” she said. “I understand you’re asking about Dr. Winnie.”
“Yes. I need to speak with her. It’s important.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Winnie is no longer with us,” Adetola said. “She transferred to another hospital about a week ago.”
Ethan felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under him.
“Transferred… where?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the doctor replied. “We don’t share staff details with the public.”
“Please,” Ethan said, dropping the billionaire tone. “I know this is unusual, but I need to reach her. There was… a situation. I just need to know she’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Adetola said, sympathy flickering briefly. “There’s nothing more I can tell you.”
Ethan left the hospital with nothing but a name and the memory of a woman who had disappeared from his life as abruptly as she’d entered it.
He hired a private investigator.
“I have her name,” Ethan said. “She’s a doctor. She did her internship here. Somewhere.”
The investigator shook his head.
“There are many doctors with similar names,” he said. “Without more information—a school, a state of origin, even a photo—it’s near impossible.”
Ethan tried social media, typing “Dr. Eunice Winnie” into search bars on Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn.
Hundreds of profiles appeared.
None he could say for certain were her.
Time passed.
He tried to move on.
He told himself that day had been a fluke.
He tried again with other women.
His body, stubborn, went back to its old silence.
A psychiatrist suggested a theory.
“Your breakthrough happened with a specific person,” the man said. “Your mind may have linked your ability to perform to her. It’s like your brain has made her the only ‘safe’ context for intimacy.”
“So what do I do? Find her?” Ethan asked.
“Or work to break the association,” the psychiatrist replied. “Therapy, exercises, time.”
He tried.
It didn’t work.
He kept thinking about the woman who had fallen into his life and then vanished.
Winnie’s Escape
Winnie woke on a cold bathroom floor, nauseous and weak.
For a few seconds, she didn’t remember why she was there.
Then memory came rushing in like a flood.
The tea. The corridor. The elevator. The door of VIP Room 2. The man on the bed.
Dear God.
She pushed herself up and looked in the mirror.
She barely recognized herself. Hair wild. Eyes red. Lips swollen. Red marks on her neck and shoulders. Her clothes wrinkled and askew.
She looked like someone who had been in a fight.
Or worse.
Her stomach turned. She dropped to the toilet and vomited until there was nothing left.
When she could move again, she sat on the tiled floor, shaking.
This is not how it was supposed to happen, she thought, as sobs racked her body. Not like this.
She had always imagined her first time would be with someone she cared about, someone who cared. Gentle. Slow. Mutual.
Instead, she had attacked a stranger in a hospital bed like an animal.
She had no memory of details, just heat and desperation and the blur of movement.
What if he reported her?
What if he complained to the hospital? They would investigate. She would be labeled a predator. Her career would end. All her years of sacrifice would crumble in a single scandal.
And he had every right to complain.
Even if she’d been drugged.
She washed herself in the sink, scrubbing her skin until it was red. She fixed her hair and clothes as best she could. Then she walked through the corridors like a ghost.
Nobody stopped her.
No one mentioned the VIP room.
No security approached.
She took her bag and left without saying goodbye.
At home, she showered until the water ran cold. She cried until there were no tears left.
She thought about reporting Dr. Oladipo that night.
She didn’t.
Who would believe that the respected senior doctor had drugged her? She had no proof. No witnesses. No recording. Just her word against his.
And there was that man.
That stranger.
Even if she reported the assault, she would also have to confess what she had done.
She couldn’t bear it.
So she buried it.
Weeks passed.
She avoided his office. Asked to be put on different shifts. Pretended everything was fine.
Then her period was late.
She waited, praying it was stress.
It didn’t come.
A pharmacy pregnancy test confirmed what her trembling hands already suspected.
Positive.
She stared at the stick in disbelief, then laughed.
A harsh, broken laugh.
She lost her virginity—while drugged—to a stranger.
And now she was pregnant with his child.
She cried again, this time on the bathroom floor, pressed against the cabinet.
Eventually, she made decisions.
She applied for a placement in Abuja. Got a job at a hospital there. Packed her things. Told her colleagues she needed a change of environment.
Matron Bisi hugged her.
“Are you okay?” the older woman whispered. “You seem… heavier.”
“I’m fine, ma,” Winnie lied. “I just need a fresh start.”
She left Lagos on a rainy morning, watching the city shrink through the bus window.
“Good riddance,” she thought. “I never want to come back.”
Her hand rested unconsciously on her still‑flat belly.
“I’ll figure this out,” she whispered to the life forming inside her. “You didn’t ask for any of this. I’ll make sure you’re safe. Even if I have to do it alone.”
Five Years
Abuja was different.
The air felt drier. The sky bigger. The chaos familiar, but with less salt in it.
Winnie threw herself into work at St. Mary’s General Hospital. She learned new routines, new colleagues, new corridors. She became known as the quiet doctor who took extra shifts, who took time to explain diagnoses to patients, who never flirted back.
Her belly grew. Gossip buzzed.
“Who is the father?” “Is he abroad?” “Did he abandon her?”
She didn’t answer.
Her mother called from Enugu.
“Come home and have the baby here,” Mama urged. “You’re alone there.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama,” Winnie said. “I have colleagues. I have the hospital.”
She delivered twins on a hot afternoon.
A boy and a girl.
They were small but strong. They cried loudly, glaring at the world like it had interrupted their sleep.
She named them Jason and Jade.
For four years, she raised them. Juggled shifts and daycare. Napped in chairs. Attended parent‑teacher meetings with coffee in her veins.
She never spoke of their father.
He was a phantom from a day she wanted to forget.
Meeting Again
Five years after that afternoon in Lagos, in an Abuja conference room, an old board member collapsed.
Ethan watched Chief Adeboye clutch his chest and fall.
“Heart attack,” Ethan said automatically.
“Call an ambulance!”
“Move the chairs!”
Chaos erupted.
Ethan acted.
He had money and influence, but in moments like this, all that mattered was speed.
He and his driver got the older man into the car and sped through traffic to St. Mary’s General Hospital, horn blaring, hazard lights flashing.
Doctors rushed the chief inside. A team worked on him.
Minutes crawled.
Finally, a young doctor came out, her expression calm.
“He’s stable,” she said. “Minor episode. You got him here in time.”
Relief washed through Ethan.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, doctor.”
She nodded and ducked back through the swinging doors.
Ethan went to the waiting area, sat in a plastic chair, and exhaled. His shirt clung to his back with sweat.
His phone buzzed.
Grandma.
He answered, reassured her he was fine, promised to call later.
“Jason! Where are you going? Don’t run!”
A small blur shot past his feet.
A red ball rolled to a stop in front of him.
Ethan bent and picked it up just as a little boy skidded to a halt.
He was maybe four. Bright eyes. Strong features. Hair in a small fro. An infectious grin.
“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. “That’s my ball.”
Ethan handed it over.
“You should be careful,” he said. “This is a hospital.”
The boy took the ball but stayed.
“You’re very tall,” he observed. “Are you a giant?”
Ethan almost laughed.
“No. Just tall.”
“I’m Jason,” the boy said. “What’s your name?”
“Ethan.”
“That’s a cool name. Do you work here?”
“No. I’m just waiting for a friend. He’s being treated.”
“Oh. Is he sick?”
“He had a little heart problem. But he’s okay now.”
“That’s good,” Jason said. “My mommy fixes people with heart problems all the time. She’s a doctor. A very beautiful doctor. Everyone says so.”
Ethan smiled.
“I’m sure she’s special.”
“She is,” Jason said proudly. “She’s like a superhero. But don’t tell her I said that. Her head will become big like balloon.”
Ethan laughed.
“Secret is safe.”
Jason bounced the ball.
“You married?” he asked.
The question caught Ethan off guard.
“No,” he said.
“Oh. You seem like a good person. My mommy is single,” Jason said without missing a beat. “Maybe you can marry her. Then you can be my daddy. Do you have a big TV?”
Ethan stared.
Was this child trying to barter marriage for home electronics?
Before he could respond, a voice sliced through the lobby.
“Jason!”
A woman in a white coat strode toward them.
She was slightly breathless, hair coming loose from its bun, stethoscope swinging.
“Didn’t I tell you not to run in the hospital?” she scolded. “You can’t play ball here. It’s dangerous!”
Jason tried to defend himself.
“I was just—”
Her gaze lifted to Ethan.
And everything froze.
Her eyes widened. Color drained from her face. Her hands tightened on the ball and Jason’s shoulder.
Ethan’s heart stopped.
Dr. Eunice Winnie.
She was more beautiful than he remembered, but the shock in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Hi,” Ethan said slowly. “Do you—”
“No,” she said quickly. “We haven’t met.”
She grabbed Jason’s hand.
“I’m sorry for the disturbance,” she said. “Come, Jason. We have to go.”
“But Mommy,” Jason protested. “I wanted to show Mr. Ethan my ball. And I told him—”
“Now,” she said sharply.
She walked away fast, dragging the confused boy behind her.
“We definitely know each other,” Ethan whispered to himself.
She remembered him.
She lied.
Fear flickered in her eyes, not blankness.
He sank back into the chair, mind spinning.
She was here. In Abuja. A doctor. With a four‑year‑old son.
A son whose age lined up almost too neatly with a day five years past.
No. Ethan shook his head. Impossible. He’d been impotent for ten years. That afternoon had been a miracle, but…
He couldn’t finish the thought.
He left the hospital that day with a new mission.
He was going to find her properly.
Patience
He returned the next day.
She avoided him.
The day after that, he came again.
She walked past him in the corridor, eyes fixed on her chart.
When he asked at reception about “Dr. Winnie,” they glanced at him with curiosity.
“The pretty cardiology intern?” one nurse whispered to another.
He learned her full name. Her department. Nothing more.
He didn’t ambush her in hallways. Didn’t run after her.
He sat in the lobby, calm, reading or staring at his phone, letting her see him from a distance.
Sometimes he brought coffee and left it at the front desk.
“For Dr. Okafor,” he’d say.
Some days it disappeared. Some days it sat untouched until cold.
Jason found him again.
“Mr. Ethan!” the boy said. “You’re here again. Are you visiting your friend still?”
“No,” Ethan said. “My friend is better now. I’m… waiting to talk to someone.”
“Who?”
“Your mom.”
Jason’s eyes lit up.
“My mommy? Are you going to marry her now?”
“Jason!” came the familiar voice.
Winnie swooped in, grabbed Jason’s hand, and gave Ethan a look that said, stop encouraging him.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” she scolded.
“He’s not a stranger,” Jason argued. “He’s my friend. And maybe my daddy.”
Winnie nearly choked.
“Car. Now,” she said.
The pattern repeated for months.
Ethan came.
He waited.
He watched Winnie move through her days—her kindness, her competence, the way she carried exhaustion like armor.
He saw her patience with terminal patients. Her firmness with arrogant colleagues. The way she kissed her children’s faces when she thought no one was looking.
He fell in love with all of it.
He didn’t push.
He just existed near her.
It wore her down.
Finally, one evening in the parking lot, she stopped.
“How long are you going to keep doing this?” she asked, keys in hand.
“How long are you going to pretend you don’t recognize me?” he countered.
“I don’t.”
“Your eyes say otherwise.”
She sighed.
“What do you want?” she asked. “Honestly.”
“Five minutes,” he said. “To talk. That’s all.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’ve spent five years trying to understand that day. Can you spare five minutes?”
Jason’s voice interrupted. “Mommy, I’m hungry!”
Jade stood beside him, clutching a book.
Winnie looked from them to Ethan and back.
“Give me your number,” she said abruptly.
They exchanged contacts.
“I’ll call,” she said. “We’ll talk. Not here. Not now.”
She left.
Three days later, his phone rang.
Her voice was small but steady.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Mama Ada’s coffee shop. 1 p.m. Come alone.”
Truth
He arrived early.
She walked in on the dot.
Out of her white coat, in jeans and a simple top, she somehow looked more vulnerable.
She sat.
He handed her coffee.
“Thank you,” she said.
For a moment, they sat in silence.
“What happened to you that day?” he asked.
She stared into her cup.
“My supervisor drugged me,” she said.
The words were blunt, dropped like stones.
She told him everything. The tea. The burning. The panic. The matron’s well‑intentioned mistake. The room she thought was empty.
“I wasn’t in my right mind,” she said. “I barely remember details. Just… need. I woke up in a bathroom, and when I realized what had happened, I thought you’d report me. That I’d lose my career. So I ran.”
He sat, sick with horror.
“You were assaulted,” he said. “And I—”
“You didn’t know,” she cut in. “You had no way to know. You’re not a mind reader. And I didn’t exactly give you a chance to think.”
He told her his side then. The accident. Ten years of failure. The hospital appointment that day. The miracle that had seemed random.
“When you came in,” he said quietly, “for the first time in ten years, my body worked.”
She gave a short, almost hysterical laugh.
“The irony,” she murmured. “You came to treat infertility, and that same afternoon, you fathered my children.”
He stared.
“What?”
“Jason and Jade,” she said. “My twins. They’re yours.”
The café fell away.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
“You’re saying—”
“I’m saying that I got pregnant from that afternoon,” she said. “I found out weeks later. I left Lagos. I didn’t know your name. You were gone when I woke up. I decided to keep them. I’ve been raising them alone.”
He stood up so fast his chair scraped.
Other customers glanced over.
He lowered his voice.
“I have children,” he said. “Twins.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“After ten years of thinking I… couldn’t… I have … kids?”
He laughed then. A startled, unsteady laugh.
“Why didn’t you try to find me?” he asked. “Why didn’t you—”
“How?” she asked. “All I had was a half‑remembered face and a body full of shame. And even if I did find you, what would I say? ‘Hi, remember when I assaulted you in a hospital room? Surprise, you’re a dad.’”
He flinched at the word assault, but didn’t correct her. She had a right to frame it that way for herself.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said. “Never have been. Confused, yes. But not angry.”
She looked at him, eyes shiny.
“I was terrified you’d take them away,” she admitted. “That you’d have lawyers and money and power. That I’d lose them. So I built a life far away. I didn’t want you to know.”
“And now?” he asked softly.
She hesitated.
“You’ve been here for months,” she said. “You’ve been patient. You didn’t push. Jason adores you. Jade asks about your opinions on books. I… see how you are with them. I trust that, even if I don’t know where this goes.”
“What happens now?” she asked.
“I want to be their father,” he said simply. “Not just the man who appears on weekends. Real father. If you’ll let me.”
She looked down at her hands.
“You’re already their father in their hearts,” she said slowly. “We don’t use that word yet, but… I see it. I won’t stop you from seeing them. Just… don’t rush telling them anything. They need stability.”
“I’ll move at your pace,” he promised.
She nodded.
“Okay.”
She rose to go.
At the door, she looked back.
“Ethan,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Thank you… for not trying to erase me from their lives before you’ve even entered them. I’ve seen men with far less power do far worse.”
He understood what she hadn’t said.
He didn’t intend to be one of them.
Father
Weekends in Abuja became his routine.
He flew in on Fridays.
On Saturdays, he took Jason to the park. They kicked a ball until both were breathless.
“You should see your left foot,” Ethan said once. “Strong. You could be great.”
“Like Messi?” Jason’s eyes sparkled.
“Like Jason,” Ethan corrected.
On Sundays, he sat with Jade under trees, looking up at the sky as she pointed out faint patterns.
“Do you think we’re alone in the universe?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you?”
“No,” she said simply. “It’s too big for that.”
“You’re very smart,” he said.
“Mommy says I got it from her,” Jade replied with a small, satisfied smile.
Winnie watched.
At first, she hovered, arms crossed, ready to step in.
Over time, she relaxed.
Ethan didn’t overstep. He didn’t correct the children harshly. He didn’t buy their affection with gadgets and sweets alone.
He listened.
He showed up when he said he would.
One day, Jason climbed into Ethan’s lap and asked, “Uncle Ethan, if you were my daddy, would you tell me to go to bed early?”
“Yes,” Ethan said.
“Then maybe you are my daddy,” Jason concluded. “Mommy always says people who love you tell you when to sleep.”
Winnie walked past and nearly tripped.
Slowly, she and Ethan grew closer, too.
They talked about Lagos and Abuja, mothers and grandmothers, the weariness of being seen as a bank account, the trauma of being seen as a body.
Ethan told her about his grandmother.
“Bring them,” Grandma demanded when he told her about the twins. “Bring my great‑grandchildren. Immediately. I will cover them in prayer until heaven is tired of hearing their names.”
Winnie was nervous about that.
But when they visited, her fears eased.
Grandma was loud and dramatic, yes. She showered the children with affection and gifts and Bible verses. She also took Winnie aside in the kitchen, lowered her voice, and said, “Thank you. You did not owe us these children. You owed them your love. You gave it. We are grateful.”
Winnie nearly cried over the pot of stew.
Naming Things
One evening, months into this new rhythm, Ethan and Winnie sat on her small couch after the twins had fallen asleep.
The TV murmured quietly, ignored.
“What are we?” Ethan asked.
“Tired,” Winnie said.
He laughed.
“Besides that.”
She hugged a throw pillow.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Co‑parents. Friends. Something between.”
“I like you,” he said, the words out before he could second‑guess them. “More than is convenient.”
Her eyes flicked to his.
“I’ve tried not to,” she said. “Also more than is convenient.”
He exhaled, tension easing out of his shoulders.
“So we’re agreed,” he said. “We’re both inconvenient.”
She smiled.
“What do we do about it?” she asked.
“Take it slow?” he suggested. “See where it goes?”
She bit her lip, thinking.
“Slow is good,” she said. “My whole life has felt like being pushed off cliffs. For once, I’d like to walk down a hill.”
That became their agreement.
They held hands sometimes.
They argued over parenting decisions occasionally. He wanted to buy too many toys. She worried about spoiling them. They fought, apologized, learned each other’s rhythms.
The twins adjusted quickly when told the truth.
Jason was thrilled.
“You’re my daddy? Like my actual daddy?” he asked, practically vibrating.
“Yes,” Ethan said.
“I knew it,” Jason crowed. “I told Mommy you were cool enough.”
Jade was quieter.
“Does this mean you’ll always be here?” she asked.
“I will always try my best to be,” Ethan answered, not making promises he couldn’t guarantee.
She nodded, considered, then slipped her hand into his.
“Okay,” she said.
Second Chances
One night, after the twins were asleep and the dishes done, Ethan turned to Winnie.
“Marry me,” he said.
She choked on her tea.
“What?”
“We’ve been doing this slowly for months,” he said. “We’ve co‑parented, we’ve travelled together, we’ve fought and forgiven. I love you. I love our children. I want to be your husband, not just the weekend presence.”
She stared.
“This is crazy,” she said. “We didn’t meet in a sane way. The universe has played enough games with us.”
“Exactly,” he said. “We’re not strangers testing compatibility. We have five years of history and two children. That’s more data than most couples ever get before marriage.”
“Data?” she repeated, laughing despite herself. “You’re talking romance like a business analyst.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Let me try again.”
He took her hand.
“Winnie,” he said, “I spent ten years believing I was broken. I spent five years searching for you. I never thought I’d have a family. I never thought I’d laugh in a house with children calling me Daddy. I never thought I’d sit on a worn‑out sofa and feel more at peace than in any penthouse. You gave me all of that. Please marry me. Not because of duty. Because we love each other. Because we’re good together.”
Her eyes filled.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“So am I,” he said. “That’s okay.”
She looked at him, at the tired man who’d sat in a hospital lobby for months just to earn a conversation. At the man who knelt to tie Jason’s shoes. Who listened to Jade’s monologues about quasars. Who apologized when he was wrong. Who had never once made her feel like a mistake.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I’ll marry you.”
Grandma nearly fainted when she heard.
The small wedding in Abuja was crowded in spirit if not in numbers. Austin’s speech made everyone laugh.
“I’ve known Ethan for twenty years,” he said. “I’ve seen him at his lowest, when he thought he’d never be a father, never be a husband. I’ve also seen him stalk a hospital lobby for months like a well‑dressed madman. Winnie, you’re the only person who could bring him peace like this. To Ethan and Winnie, proof that even the strangest stories can become beautiful.”
Jason and Jade took their roles as ring bearers very seriously.
At the vows, Winnie kept it simple.
“I tried very hard not to love you,” she said, making the guests chuckle. “But you made it difficult. You were stubborn and kind and steady. You showed me that not all men with money use it to crush others. You gave me more than child support. You gave me partnership. I promise to keep choosing you. Even on days when you annoy me.”
Ethan’s vows were brief.
“You walked into my life on the worst ten years of it,” he said. “You turned a curse into the greatest blessing I have. I thought I was less than a man. You gave me a family. I thought I’d never have an heir. You gave me three. I thought I’d never trust anyone. You proved me wrong.”
Months later, when they welcomed a little girl named Grace into their growing family, he held her in the hospital room and kissed Winnie’s forehead.
“Do you ever think about that day?” he asked.
“Which one?” she said dryly. “The one where I assaulted a patient?”
“The one where the universe shoved two broken people into the same room,” he said. “And somehow, from all that mess, made this.”
He looked at their sleeping baby. Heard Jason and Jade arguing quietly in the corridor about who would hold her first. Heard Grandma in the waiting room yelling at nurses affectionately.
“It was the worst day of my life,” Winnie said. “And the best. But I’m glad we’re here now and not there.”
“So am I,” he said.
She smiled.
“Next time,” she added, “if I drink tea in anyone’s office, you have permission to break the door down.”
“Deal,” he said.
Outside, Abuja’s traffic roared on. Life for others went on as usual.
Inside that small room, a man who’d believed himself broken and a woman who’d been drugged and violated years earlier sat surrounded by children, noise, love.
Their story had begun with shame and fear and desperation.
It became something else.
Not because the pain didn’t matter, but because they survived it—and found each other on the other side.
Sometimes the most impossible stories are the ones that heal us.
Sometimes what breaks you is also what sets you free.
.
