Rick's accusation was so absurd it was almost laughable.
But Clara believed him.
"Tommy! You dared to hurt Rick!"
She turned to the two bodyguards at the door and shouted, "Hold him down! Break his hands! Make him pay for what he did to Rick!"
Before I could react, the two burly men had already seized my arms.
"I didn't! Clara! I was just cleaning his wound!"
But she wouldn't listen.
She rushed to the wall, grabbed a decorative blue-and-white porcelain vase, and walked toward me.
"Clara! I'm a surgeon! My hands—"
Before I could finish, she had already raised the vase high above her head.
A surgeon's hands are a second life. They demand absolute precision and sensitivity—there can be no error, not even the slightest.
I couldn't stop myself from pleading, my voice breaking. "I really didn't do anything, Clara. We've been married for years. Don't you trust me at all?"
Her raised hand paused midair for a second.
For that one second, I thought she still had a shred of humanity.
The next moment, she brought the vase crashing down on my right hand with all her strength.
"I only believe what I see! Rick would never lie to me!"
A searing, bone-deep agony exploded from my right hand, ripping through my entire body.
My vision went black. The pain nearly knocked me unconscious.
A scream tore from my throat, barely human. "Stop! Don't hit me anymore! I won't go—I won't go to the operating room! Please!"
Only then did Clara lower the vase.
I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, thinking the torture was finally over.
But she handed the bloodstained vase to one of the bodyguards.
"Keep going. Don't stop until his bones are broken."
I looked up in shock—just in time to meet Rick's eyes, dark with malice and triumph.
In that instant, everything became clear.
The heavy vase came down again and again. My right hand was smashed into a mangled mess of flesh and blood, the bones twisted and exposed in grotesque angles.
At last, I couldn't hold on any longer. The endless pain swallowed me whole, and I blacked out.
When I came to, it was the shock of cold water being splashed over me.
Clara stood in front of me, her face devoid of emotion.
"This is what you get for doing something wrong."
I looked down at my hands—blood and torn flesh fused together, bone faintly visible beneath.
A tidal wave of hatred surged through me.
"Clara… we're getting a divorce!"
She let out a cold snort, as if she'd just heard a joke. "Stop making a scene. It's just a minor injury. We'll have a doctor fix it in a bit."
I laughed in fury, until tears streamed down my face.
"I'm a surgeon! You knew exactly how important my hands are! They require absolute precision and control—there can't be even the slightest mistake! And you—"
My career. My life. She had destroyed them with her own hands.
At that moment, Spencer Shaw rushed in, sobbing, his voice sharp with grief.
"Ms. Stevens! Mr. Stevens… he couldn't be saved!"
Then he saw Rick cowering behind Clara. His eyes widened as if they might split apart.
"It was you! You murderer! Your car hit Mr. Stevens—I saw the surveillance footage! I'm calling the police! You'll be arrested!"
It all came rushing back to him—the hit-and-run vehicle he had seen on the cameras… it was Rick's.
Rick panicked instantly. He clutched Clara's sleeve, his words tumbling over each other. "Clara, I didn't mean to—I really didn't…"
Clara waved Spencer off impatiently. "Get out. This doesn't concern you."
I couldn't be bothered to watch this farce any longer. All I wanted now was to find an orthopedic doctor immediately—to see if my hands could still be saved.
I struggled to my feet, trying to leave.
But once again, Clara stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
