Ignoring his pretense, I wheeled past him, looking for a quiet place to rest.
But he grabbed onto my wheelchair, his expression turned pitiful.
A sharp pain shot through my arm.
He had a tiny pin hidden between his fingers—one that he had just stabbed directly into my still-healing wound.
My scalp tingled from the pain.
Clara, busy greeting guests, turned at the commotion and approached us.
I knew Henry too well. If I reacted now, he would immediately put on an act, twisting the situation to make me the villain.
I gritted my teeth and endured it.
Sure enough, he sniffled and started whining, "Sis, Brother must be mad at me for not visiting him! But you know how busy I’ve been... My new software is a huge success, and I just won an award—I barely had time to breathe!"
He flaunted my hard work as his achievement, basking in the admiration of the guests.
Meanwhile, I—the one whose name had been dragged through the mud—couldn’t escape the whispers and disdainful glances, no matter how low I kept my head.
"Jayce, if you’re not feeling well, go rest." Clara's tone was gentle, but there was something else beneath it—an almost imperceptible trace of impatience and distaste.