My Boyfriend Amputated My Right Hand to Help Fake Winner

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.