He nodded to the guards. Just like that, they pinned me to the floor. My knees hit the hardwood with a sharp crack, pain shooting up my legs until I went numb.
Erving picked up a solid wooden stick from beside him and walked step by step to me, his voice without any warmth.
“The kidnappers said you wanted to destroy Anya’s hands so she could never paint again. Maybe it’s time you learned what happens when you touch something you shouldn’t.”
“I didn’t!”
I looked at him, my eyes still holding the last shred of ridiculous hope.
“Erving! Can’t you believe me just once? Check the hotel security footage. Ask the staff. I haven’t left my room in days! You won’t even look for proof! Just based on that woman’s claims, you’re going to punish me?!”
He said nothing. He only lifted the stick.
The very next second, the wooden stick slammed down hard onto my right hand.
Pain exploded through my hand. My whole body shook. Sweat drenched my clothes. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. But I didn’t cry. I just stared at him, refusing to look away.
There was no hesitation in his face. No trace of pity, only deep coldness.