I didn't hesitate. I met his gaze and said, "Yes."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, quickly followed by an explosion of outrage.
"Damn! If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't believe someone could be so heartless."
"If you love your dog so much, just spend your life with it! Why did you even bother get married and ruin someone else's life?!"
"Exactly! Why wasn't it you in that car accident instead? Scum like you don't deserve to live!"
The streamers had gotten what they wanted. My answer had poured gasoline on the fire. The mob's voices rose in a deafening chorus of insults. Some even looked like they wanted to rush at me and beat me up right then and there.
Amidst the verbal onslaught, movement in the crowd caught my eye. My parents appeared, pushing Wanda in a wheelchair.
Wanda's face was deathly pale, her once vibrant features drained of all color. She looked frail, slumped weakly in the chair.
And then, to my shock, she smiled at me.
It was faint, barely there, but her eyes shone with something soft. Concern.
"Honey, are you okay?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with exhaustion, yet all she cared about was me.
I stared at her, shaking my head in response but didn't say a word.
Seeing my reaction, my father suddenly stepped forward, his face dark with fury.
"Damian," he said coldly, "your mother and I spent the whole night trying to figure out why you're suddenly treating Wanda like this."
"We thought—maybe you had some kind of misunderstanding about her and the baby. Maybe there was a reason for all of this insanity."
His gaze bore into me, sharp and accusing. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded document.
"So, we rushed to get a paternity test done."
The words slammed into me like a hammer.
"Wanda's child is indeed yours!" he roared. "You bastard, how could you abandon them for a damn dog?!"
As he spoke, my father shoved the paternity test results toward me.
I didn't even glance at them. Instead, I let out a faint "Oh" and said nothing more.
My mother's brows knitted together as she exhaled sharply. Her voice was firm yet restrained.
"Damian, Wanda saw the livestream of you being attacked online. She was so worried about you that she rushed over here despite her condition. Even the doctors couldn't stop her."
"She always puts you first. You can't keep hurting her like this."
"Be reasonable. Apologize to her and admit you were wrong."
I gently stroked Duke in my arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of its body. My fingers curled slightly as I answered with quiet conviction.
"I only wanted to save my dog. What did I do wrong?"
Smack!
A sharp, burning pain exploded across my cheek.
My father had slapped me—hard.
"You ungrateful bastard!" he roared, his voice raw with fury. "You abandoned your pregnant wife on the road after a car accident just to save a damn dog!"
"You ignored your premature son, who is still fighting for his life in an incubator! Have you even asked about him? Have you shown even the slightest concern?!"
"And after all that, you still have the audacity to say you did nothing wrong?!"
His chest heaved with rage. His eyes—usually calm—were ablaze with an emotion I had never seen before.
That slap had landed with full force. My skin burned, a dull throb spreading from my cheekbone to my temple.
Wanda, who had been silent all this time, flinched at the sight. Her lips parted slightly before she turned to my father, her expression pained.
"Dad, don't be mad," she said softly. "Let's talk this out. Don't hit Damian."
Her fingers clutched the edge of her dress, her frail shoulders trembling.
"He was just desperate to save Duke, but I believe—deep down—he still loves me and our son."
Just as she finished speaking, her phone rang.
The sudden sound cut through the heavy tension like a blade.
She fumbled to answer, pressing the device to her ear. The moment she did, a strained, urgent voice came through the speaker.
"Ms. Wanda, your baby is in critical condition and needs an immediate blood transfusion!"
It was the attending doctor.
Wanda froze, her breath catching in her throat.
"He has a rare blood type—Rh-negative," the doctor continued, his tone tight with urgency. "We can't find a match in time!"
"Between you and the father, whoever has the matching blood type, please come to the hospital immediately. If we don't act fast, the baby's life will be in danger!"
A shudder passed through her thin frame.
Her grip on the phone tightened before she turned to me, her wide, desperate eyes searching my face.
"Damian," she whispered. "You have the same blood type, don't you?"
Her fingers reached out, latching onto my wrist as she pleaded.
"Hurry, we have to go save our son!"
