At this moment, I couldn’t even tell—who was truly Clara’s flesh and blood? And who, after twelve years of unwavering loyalty, was Wyatt’s real friend?
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.