Faking My Death to Escape My Screwed-up Family

Clara spoke loudly, but her eyes flickered with guilt, refusing to meet mine.

She knew all too well—after personally driving the knife into me, how could she possibly expect me to breathe again?

To pave the way for Henry, the sister who once stood before our parents’ graves, swearing to protect me for life, was the very one who pushed me to the brink of death.

And the best friend I once trusted with my life? In the end, he too chose to betray me for that manipulative adopted son.

At this moment, I couldn’t even tell—who was truly Clara’s flesh and blood? And who, after twelve years of unwavering loyalty, was Wyatt’s real friend?

Even their marriage was something I had helped arrange. Yet in return, they chose to destroy me with lies and deceit, slicing me apart with their betrayal.

My heart was dead. I had no more words to say.

A doctor approached, carrying antiseptic solution. He looked at my grotesquely twisted limbs and the horrifying wounds on my lower body, his face filled with pity.

"Mr. Evans, the specialists haven’t arrived yet. We can only disinfect your wounds for now. You’ll have to endure it."

No amount of anesthesia could numb the agony. I bit down so hard that I tasted blood in my mouth. Yet the physical pain was nothing—nothing compared to the torment in my heart.

Wyatt clenched his fists, veins bulging, and his eyes were bloodshot.

Clara staggered out of the room, her body trembling.

Their concern looked so real.

And yet, I felt nothing.

—

When I woke up again, it was the next day. Outside the hospital room, I could hear Clara and Wyatt talking.

"Honey, Jayce is already in this state. Are you sure we should still invite reporters to expose his... twisted sexual orientation and reckless promiscuity?"

Clara hesitated for a moment before responding firmly, "Yes! He’s already ruined, a little more filth won’t make a difference. Those software competition judges despise personal scandals. This will be a good opportunity to break his spirit—it’s for his own good."

Then, she added carefully, "Make sure the specialists are ready. The moment the reporters leave, they can start treating him."

Wyatt nodded repeatedly.

I lay motionless on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Silent tears streamed down my face, burning hot.

Clara knew—she had always known.

She knew that I was switched at birth, that I suffered endless hardships growing up, that I had to work ten times harder than anyone else to become a software developer.

And yet, with a single sentence, she erased everything I had built.

If I had known that returning to my biological family would be worse than death, I would have rather been beaten to death by my adoptive father back then.

—

An hour later, a swarm of reporters suddenly burst into my hospital room.

They came armed with cameras, microphones—men and women alike—rushing toward me like a pack of bloodthirsty bats.

Panic seized me. My face turned deathly pale, and my broken body couldn’t even flinch.

"Mr. Evans, rumors say you prefer men and deliberately sought out muscular partners, landing yourself in the hospital. Would you say this is karma? How do you feel about it?"

"With such promiscuity, did you use your ‘skills’ in bed to secure your position as a software developer?"

"Mr. Evans, you can’t even move now—have you been left completely crippled? Do you have unirary incontinence?"

As they spoke, one of the reporters suddenly reached out and yanked away the thin blanket covering me.

I wasn’t wearing anything—my injuries made it impossible.

Humiliation crashed over me like a tidal wave. My chest tightened. My breath came in painful gasps.

"Oh god, how disgusting! So many wounds!"

"Tsk tsk, his limbs are completely deformed. Pretty face, but a total freak. Quick, take as many pictures as you can—pure gold for the headlines!"

Their sneers and contempt cut into me like knives, stabbing straight into my chest.