Even their marriage was something I had helped arrange. Yet in return, they chose to destroy me with lies and deceit, slicing me apart with their betrayal.
My heart was dead. I had no more words to say.
A doctor approached, carrying antiseptic solution. He looked at my grotesquely twisted limbs and the horrifying wounds on my lower body, his face filled with pity.
"Mr. Evans, the specialists haven’t arrived yet. We can only disinfect your wounds for now. You’ll have to endure it."
No amount of anesthesia could numb the agony. I bit down so hard that I tasted blood in my mouth. Yet the physical pain was nothing—nothing compared to the torment in my heart.
Wyatt clenched his fists, veins bulging, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Clara staggered out of the room, her body trembling.
Their concern looked so real.
And yet, I felt nothing.
—
When I woke up again, it was the next day. Outside the hospital room, I could hear Clara and Wyatt talking.
"Honey, Jayce is already in this state. Are you sure we should still invite reporters to expose his... twisted sexual orientation and reckless promiscuity?"
Clara hesitated for a moment before responding firmly, "Yes! He’s already ruined, a little more filth won’t make a difference. Those software competition judges despise personal scandals. This will be a good opportunity to break his spirit—it’s for his own good."
Then, she added carefully, "Make sure the specialists are ready. The moment the reporters leave, they can start treating him."
Wyatt nodded repeatedly.
I lay motionless on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Silent tears streamed down my face, burning hot.
Clara knew—she had always known.
She knew that I was switched at birth, that I suffered endless hardships growing up, that I had to work ten times harder than anyone else to become a software developer.
And yet, with a single sentence, she erased everything I had built.
If I had known that returning to my biological family would be worse than death, I would have rather been beaten to death by my adoptive father back then.
—
An hour later, a swarm of reporters suddenly burst into my hospital room.
They came armed with cameras, microphones—men and women alike—rushing toward me like a pack of bloodthirsty bats.
Panic seized me. My face turned deathly pale, and my broken body couldn’t even flinch.