It happened in the art studio. The ceiling light fell without warning. I instinctively raised my right hand to shield myself. That was the moment everything changed. Because my boyfriend, Bruce Dagney, didn’t have money, he took me to a shady clinic for treatment. They botched it. My right hand was ruined—permanently.

I missed the finals of the National Ink Painting Competition. Worse, I missed the once-in-a-lifetime chance to become a disciple of a grandmaster.

Left with no choice, I continued working three jobs a day just to survive. Six months later, during a routine food delivery, I stumbled upon a truth that shattered me. I saw him—my boyfriend—and overheard a conversation between him and one of his friends.

“Bruce, that girl Sandra Hunson only had a minor fracture in her right hand. You actually had someone amputate it?”

“Hmph. It should’ve been destroyed anyway. Since she’s still alive, her right hand was the price she had to pay.”

“I promised Kate I’d help her win the ink painting competition and remove any threats in her path. I won’t allow anyone to stand in her way.”

It hit me like a slap in the face. The love I had once bragged about, the relationship I believed in—it was all a cruel joke. My boyfriend, was nothing but a wolf in human skin.

Fine. If that’s who he really was, I wanted nothing more to do with him.

——

Then I heard his friend teasing him.

“Kate already has access to great teachers. But Sandra—she was your girlfriend. That master was her only shot. If she ever finds out what you did, all hell will break loose.”

“No one’s going to tell her,” Bruce said casually. “And besides, I only got close to her for Kate.”

Then, raising an eyebrow, he added, “Oh, and give her your family’s latest experimental ointment.”

His friend hesitated. “That formula hasn’t gone through clinical trials. If it goes wrong, it could affect her nerves. She might suffer chronic pain, constant tremors—”

I stood frozen by the door, my heart pounding wildly. Tears welled up in my eyes. Then came the blow that finally broke me.

“You keep saying there’s no data—well, now we have a perfect test subject. If something goes wrong, even better. That way, she’ll never pick up a brush again. Not even with assistive tools. She won’t be a threat to Kate ever again.”

“Damn, you’re ruthless. After all this time, you still won’t let her go. Sandra had real talent. What if more talented painters come along? Are you going to eliminate every single one for Kate?”

Bruce cut him off, clearly annoyed. “What else can I do? It’s just bad luck on Sandra’s part. She’s the demon in Kate’s heart. If she had died, fine. But since she survived, the only way to free Kate is to make sure Sandra never paints again. That’s the only way she can move on and reach new heights.”

After a moment, he added nonchalantly, “Besides, I’ll make it up to her. She only lost a hand. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of for the rest of her life.”

I couldn’t hold back anymore. The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over. I forced myself to calm down. I placed the food delivery at their door and walked away in a daze, pushing my scooter with trembling hands. I glanced at my right arm—the arm that now ended in emptiness. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Six months had passed. Sometimes it still felt like I could draw with that hand. Like everything had been just a terrible dream. But now I knew the truth. That accident in the studio hadn’t been an accident at all. The falling light? It was staged. By the man I loved. He did it all to help his childhood sweetheart eliminate her only serious competition. Me.

My right hand wasn’t beyond saving—but he made sure someone cut it off anyway. To Bruce, I was never a girlfriend. I was an obstacle. A threat. A loose end that needed to be eliminated. I still remember waking up after surgery. Bruce had wrapped me in his arms, his expression full of fake worry and affection.

“You scared me to death. I was so afraid something would happen to you. Thank God you raised your hand to block it. If it had hit your head, the consequences would’ve been unimaginable.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m so, so glad.”

He held me close, trembling as if he’d almost lost me. Back then, I thought he truly loved me. Now? Now I know the truth. And all I feel is cold. Cold to the bone.

That ceiling light was meant to kill me. But fate was on my side—I raised my right hand just in time to shield myself. I didn’t die. I survived, against his wishes. So he made sure someone finished the job—by amputating my right hand. That way, there’d be no chance I could ever hold a brush again. This man... he was truly heartless.

Wiping away my tears, I stopped hesitating. I booked a flight to Seattle. After completing my last delivery for the night, I returned to my basement room—rented for just one hundred dollar a month.

“You're back, Sandra. Must’ve been a long day,” he said casually, handing me a glass of water.

After watching me drink it, he pulled out a tube of ointment. “Sandra, this is a new miracle medicine from the hospital. It’s great for healing injuries.”

I remembered the conversation he had with his friend—how that ‘medicine’ hadn’t even passed clinical trials. I pushed it away.

“I don’t want it. I still want to paint.”

Bruce smiled gently. “Don’t be scared, Sandra. This is exactly to help you hold a brush again.”

But his smile sent shivers down my spine. More likely, it was to ensure I never held a brush again. I shook my head firmly. His expression darkened.

“Sandra, don’t be so stubborn.”

And then, everything began to spin. My head grew dizzy and I collapsed onto the bed. In the haze, I felt the sharp sting of a needle entering my body. Then came the pain. A burning, tearing pain shot through my right arm. I curled into a ball, whimpering in agony.

Panicked, Bruce grabbed his phone. “What’s going on? She’s still crying in pain!”

His friend on the line responded calmly, “Bruce, I told you—this medicine is going to cause a reaction.”

But Bruce wasn’t listening. He just kept ranting, furious. In my foggy, pain-filled state, I let out a bitter laugh. He was still pretending. Still playing the concerned boyfriend. But I knew. I knew this was all his doing. He wouldn’t allow even the slightest chance for my hand to recover. Cutting it off wasn’t enough.

When he saw me trying to paint with assistive tools, he panicked. Now he was trying to destroy my nerves—to eliminate any possibility of me ever drawing again.

When I next woke up, I was back at that awful black-market clinic.

The doctor looked over, surprised. “You’re awake? I’ve already given you painkillers. Does your right hand still hurt?”

I shook my head slightly. “It doesn’t hurt as much. But... I can’t seem to lift it.”

I tried to demonstrate—pushing with all my strength—but my right arm barely responded. Bruce exhaled deeply, visibly relieved.

Then he choked out, “I’m sorry, Sandra. This is all my fault.”

His eyes were bloodshot, his face full of guilt. He leaned down to hug me tightly and I felt his tears slide down my neck. But I stared at the floor—eyes cold, mind clear. Bruce, isn’t this exactly what you wanted? To ruin me, so Kate could rise.

To avoid putting stress on my body, Bruce offered to carry me home.

Back in my room, I leaned against the bed and turned on my long-abandoned social account. Immediately, floods of hateful messages popped up. Some even revealed my personal information.

[That rat living in a basement is always doing shady things—stealing from others and pretending it’s hers.]

[Heard she lost a hand too. Serves her right. A plagiarist struck down by karma.]

I forced myself to remain calm and traced the source of the attack. Turned out, a major influencer had posted about me—on behalf of a friend. I clicked into that friend’s post. And my heart sank. I knew those sketches. They were mine. I stumbled out of bed and began digging through my cabinets. But the place where I kept my artwork was empty.

That’s when Bruce walked in, freshly washed and casual as ever.

I confronted him. “Did you take my drawings?”

He looked startled by how direct I was. “Sandra, I—I was worried they might upset you, so I moved them. They’re safe somewhere else.”

I handed him my phone, showing him the post. “Then explain this. How did my artwork end up with someone else? Or are you going to admit... you sold it?”

Bruce kept insisting, “Sandra, there must be some misunderstanding. I didn’t sell your drawings.”

“If it’s a misunderstanding and you didn’t sell them,” I shot back, “then she must’ve stolen them and posted them on purpose?”

“Sandra, that’s enough,” he cut me off, his tone righteous and sharp. “You can’t just accuse someone of theft without evidence. What exactly are you trying to do?”

I let out a cold laugh. “My sketches magically ended up in her hands and now she’s accusing me of stealing them online. I just want to clear my name—is that too much to ask?”

He frowned, his voice tinged with weariness. “It’s late, can we stop now? So what if people are saying you stole them? It’s not like you can paint anymore. You’re not going back to that world anyway. A few comments online won’t hurt you.”

Seeing his double standard so clearly laid bare, I finally understood—he was protecting her. My eyes burned red as I lowered my head and pretended to sob quietly.

Thinking he’d gone too far, Bruce softened. He walked over and wrapped an arm around me, his voice suddenly gentle.

“Sandra, forget about all that online nonsense. Let’s just focus on making a good life together, okay? Make some money, live simply... That’s all we need.”

As he spoke, his cold hand slipped around my waist. Then, without warning, he scooped me up and gently laid me on the bed.

Just as he leaned in to kiss me, I raised my arm—the one without a hand—right in front of his face. I didn’t miss the flicker of disgust that flashed across his eyes.

“Sorry,” I said softly. “My right arm still hurts... It’s not convenient.”

He smiled, burying his face in my neck. He inhaled deeply, then kissed me again.

“Alright then. I’ll let you off for now.”

Over the past six months since the injury, he hadn’t touched me once. Every time he accidentally brushed against my right arm, he’d recoil instantly—then act like nothing happened.

I turned away from him, wiping the traces of him off my skin, disgust curling deep in my gut. That night, while he slept, I quietly opened the influencer's account again.

The more I scrolled, the more shocked I became. This account—there was no doubt in my mind—it belonged to Kate. She made no attempt to hide it. Post after post showed gifts from her “childhood sweetheart,” and many of them were identical to the ones Bruce had given me. Except mine were fakes. And hers were the real deal.

I remembered what Bruce told me back then. “Sandra, I can only afford the knock-offs for now. But one day, I’ll buy you the real ones.”

And I had believed him. Turns out, he always had the money. He just chose not to spend it on me. Even the gifts I saved up to buy him—working part-time jobs just to surprise him—he never used them. Said they were “too cheap.”

Every Valentine’s Day, he always claimed he was busy. Said he had work. But in truth, he was with his little childhood sweetheart. Then I saw it—her post from six months ago. A photo of her holding the championship trophy from the national ink painting competition.

The caption read.

[This award is half thanks to Bruce! I’ll reward him well tonight!]

That night—the night she won—was the same night I lost my right hand. While I lay alone in a dingy clinic, bleeding and broken, Bruce said he was out investigating why the chandelier had fallen. In reality, he was out celebrating her victory.

The next day, he came home and told me it was just an accident. Of course, it was the kind of “accident” he had orchestrated. What other truth could there be?

I closed my eyes and focused on the dull ache that still pulsed in my right arm. The next morning, Bruce acted like nothing had happened. He leaned in, pretending to kiss me—but I turned my head away.

He frowned slightly, then sighed. “Sandra, are you still mad? Don’t be like that, okay? I know you’re not that petty. Be good, hmm?”

Then he left. I knew why. Today was Kate’s birthday. For the past three years, Bruce had always thrown her lavish birthday parties. And every year, the next morning, he’d return to me with a slice of cake—one that she had made for him.