Now I’m being told that the child I cherished like my own was the illegitimate son of my wife and another man.
The humiliation burned into my soul, a wound that would never heal.
To save Ryan’s pride and protect her bastard child, Ivy spoke with cold indifference.
“It was you who framed Ryan in front of my father,” she said flatly. “That’s why he forced me to marry you.”
She had no idea how those words—spoken so casually—would crush my mother and me.
In an instant, all the blame shifted to me. To everyone watching, I became the villain in our story.
“Bah! Why not turn this wedding banquet into a funeral?” someone shouted.
“Kick over the tables! Ruin his reputation! Let Ethan learn his lesson!”
The scene erupted into chaos. I caught Ryan signaling a few men, and soon the first table was overturned. Then the second. Then the third.
My mother, clutching her chest in agony, forced herself to stand.
“Stop it, everyone!” she cried weakly.
But no one listened.
They went on smashing dishes and shouting insults, all while defending Ryan and condemning me.
Rage consumed me. I rushed toward Ivy, but Ryan stepped in front of her, shouting for everyone to hear.
“Ethan, what are you doing? Do you want to take your anger out on Ivy?”
He laughed mockingly. “Go ahead—try it! As long as I’m here, you won’t touch her. Unless I’m dead, you’ll have to step over my corpse first.”
His theatrics made the crowd cheer.
“Now that’s a real man!” someone yelled.
“Yes, a man who knows how to protect a woman!”
I almost laughed at the absurdity. I was the husband—the victim—yet they painted me as the abuser, the unworthy one.
“Step over your corpse?” I sneered. “Ryan, who do you think you are? Did I hit anyone? Did you see me touch her? Anyone?”
Silence. Not a soul answered.
“Let me tell you something, Ryan—spreading lies can get you sued.”
Then I turned to Ivy. “And you—did I trick you into marrying me, or did your family beg me when they were drowning in debt?”
Before I could say more, that bastard child—coached by Ryan—ran toward my mother, pretending to help her. Then, suddenly, he fell and cried out dramatically.
“Grandma, I was just trying to help you because you looked in pain! I’m sorry! It’s my fault and Dad’s fault you’re hurt!”
He burst into tears, sobbing, “But I’m innocent! Why did you pinch me and throw me away?”
My mother froze in shock, staring at the boy she had once treated like her own blood. The child she had loved and protected had turned on her—lying without hesitation.
Before she could speak, the crowd lost control again.
They began shouting at us, calling us heartless. Some hurled objects in our direction.
“Shame on you!”
“How could you treat a child that way?”
My mother had never been so humiliated in her life. Her face turned pale, and she fainted on the spot.
Panic gripped me. I caught her in my arms and ran, shouting for help, pushing through the chaos to get her to the hospital.
But even then, the crowd kept jeering.
“She’s faking it! Just pretending to get sympathy!”
Fury surged through me. I called the security guards, ordering them to clear a path. Some people resisted and started pushing. A scuffle broke out.
Someone took photos of the scene—of guards restraining guests—and uploaded them online with twisted captions. Within hours, social media exploded with attacks against me.
“Rich bully beats up guests!”
“Heartless son harms his own mother!”
The internet seethed with lies, but I ignored them all. I told my assistant to handle the situation. My only concern was my mother’s life.
At the hospital, as she was rushed into the emergency room, my phone buzzed.
It was a video call—from Ivy.
Her face appeared on the screen, voice smooth and detached.
“Ethan,” she said, “is your mother okay?”
