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.

I almost never touched that cake. I had told him—I was allergic to nuts. But Bruce just laughed and joked, “Sandra, you’re poor and still this high-maintenance?”

Then he ate the cake himself, savoring every bite.

At noon, I received another message.

[Villa 22, Cluster Estate. Come, you poor thing and see the difference between you and real people.]

Before, I would’ve ignored something like that. I was always too busy running delivery orders and trying to earn a living to play along with such pathetic games. But now, with my right hand useless, I couldn’t work even if I wanted to. So, I went.

As I reached the front door, I heard Bruce’s voice booming from inside.

“Let’s give a warm welcome to the queen herself, our rising star in ink painting—Miss Kate!”

I remembered how Bruce used to promise me the world. He said that when he got rich, he’d treat me like a princess. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The moment Bruce saw me, he instinctively stepped away from Kate.

She pouted and whined, “Bruce, they’re saying you’re keeping some shameful little mistress on the side. Is it true?”

Bruce had never “kept” me. It was me—working three jobs a day just to support him. His so-called care only existed in those lies he spun like fairy tales. His expression darkened slightly. “Don’t listen to them. It’s not true.”

“Not true that you have someone,” she asked with a smirk, “or not true that you have a girlfriend?”

He hesitated, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I don’t have either. I told you—I only want to protect you as you grow up.”

Satisfied, Kate giggled sweetly. Then she looked at me, as if just noticing my presence.

“Oh? A disabled delivery girl?” she said with faux surprise. “This doesn’t seem like your kind of place. You weren’t invited, were you?”

Everyone in the room knew what was going on—but no one said a word. They all played dumb. Just like how Bruce had played me all along.

I sneered, my gaze locked on Bruce, my words sharp with meaning.

“I worked hard on my art, hoping my talent could give us a better life. I took on three jobs a day so we could afford our own home. I believed in my boyfriend—because I loved him.”

Bruce’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles turning white. My voice wavered with emotion as I continued, “But some people... some people don’t deserve love. Hypocrites don’t deserve someone’s sincerity.”

Just as I finished speaking, someone beside me snorted with laughter. “Poor girl, what you’re talking about? Bruce doesn’t lack any of that—he’s got houses, painting’s just a little trick he uses to charm our goddess and as for love... well, that comes whenever we want it.”

Laughter broke out around the room.

“That’s enough! Shut your mouths!” Bruce snapped coldly. “This is Kate’s birthday party. Don’t let some outsider ruin it.”

The moment he finished, I turned and walked out. Behind me, the music kicked back up again—lively, joyful, as if nothing had happened. My appearance today… was just like me in their eyes. Insignificant. A pest. Someone to be ignored, overlooked, laughed at.

But was that really true? If I didn’t matter at all, why did my one victory over Kate become her biggest obsession?

I looked down at my left hand, still perfectly fine. If I was her demon, then I certainly wouldn’t be so easy to exorcise.

Bruce never knew I could paint with both hands. He dated me for three years and still couldn’t remember my birthday unless I reminded him. So how would he ever notice something like that?

For the past six months, I’d been practicing in secret—learning to draw with my left hand whenever I had the time.

Back then, he always seemed heartbroken that I couldn’t paint anymore. I believed he truly cared, so I kept it a secret. I wanted to surprise him.

But now, I’m grateful I did. If he had known about my left hand, I’m sure he would’ve found a way to destroy that too. With his cruelty, he’d have done it without hesitation.

Five days ago, I mailed my mother’s keepsake along with some of my latest work. That very same day, her mentor replied.