My Fiancé Called Me Damaged Goods, Then Sold Me Online

"Do you really hate me that much?" Jenna screamed. "If my existence disgusts you so much, then I'll just die!"

She pointed at the test results, her voice rising into hysteria. "You showed my results to so many people, didn't you? My reputation is ruined because of you. Living is worse than dying now!"

Before I could react, she suddenly bolted toward the window as if ready to throw herself out.

Michael lunged forward and caught her just in time. Holding her trembling body close, he turned back to me. His eyes showed disappointment and accusation.

"Zoey, you would push my sister to suicide over a simple engagement party? You have really disappointed me."

His tone grew colder as he continued.

"Apologize to her. I want you to publicly admit that you resented Jenna for delaying the engagement, that you intentionally gave her cheap ointment to infect her with a serious illness, and that you attempted to slander her with false test results."

I stared at him through a blur of tears, hollow and stunned.

"Michael, if I really did that, my entire career would be destroyed," I choked. "I will never confess to something I didn't do."

But no matter how much I cried or explained, no matter how desperately I begged him to test the ointment, he refused to listen. He didn't even try.

With a quiet, irritated click of his tongue, he signaled the bodyguards.

They grabbed me, forced my head to the floor, and held me there.

And I had to kowtow one hundred times to Jenna.

Blood splattered across the tiles. Patients and visitors stopped in the hallway, lifting their phones to record every moment of my humiliation as if it were entertainment.

By the time I finished, every ounce of strength had drained from my body. I collapsed and fainted.

When I woke up again, my phone flashed a message from one of Michael's friends, telling me to come to the bar to 'explain things' to him.

Clinging to the last fragile thread of hope I still had, I went.

Only to hear words that dragged me straight into hell.

Afterward, my colleague saw the devastation written on my face. She didn't pry. Instead, she quietly handed me the post-exposure medication.

"Take it on time for a month," she murmured. "Then come back to confirm you weren't infected."

I thanked her softly and drifted home like a ghost.

Not long after, my phone lit up again.

This time, a new message appeared with a plane ticket attached.

[Zoey, don't be afraid. I'm coming to get you. No matter what it costs, I'll heal your hand.]

Curling into my blankets, I sobbed until my voice was gone. I didn't know how long I cried before a sharp, crushing pain shot through my broken wrist.

Terrified, I jolted awake and struggled blindly.

"Don't touch me!"

"Zoey, it's me!"

In the dim light, my vision slowly focused. Michael stood over me.

He smelled freshly showered, and the scent clinging to him was the same body wash Jenna used.

I froze.

Unbothered, he pulled me into a loose embrace. "I only left you with that drunk last night. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of it? I can't even touch you now?"

At his words, my entire body trembled. Tears spilled again.

He frowned, annoyed. "Do you have to be so dramatic? I'm a regular there. Everyone knows me. Everyone knows you're my fiancée. Who would dare lay a hand on you? And look, you're perfectly fine right now, aren't you?"

His casual justifications knocked the breath out of me. I could not form a single word.

With a hint of condescension, he asked, "Is your wrist still giving you trouble? I asked someone to get a special ointment. Use it, and your hand will heal completely. You'll still be able to be a top surgeon."

His tone softened slightly, as though he were humoring a child.

"Now you won't hold a grudge, right? You can come with me to apologize now?"

But all I felt was a cold, bitter ache spreading through my chest.

"Michael," I whispered, "let's break up."

I barely finished the sentence when he glanced at his phone, a faint smile lifting his lips as if he had not heard a word I said.

Then, his gaze snapped back to me. "What did you just say?"

Before I could answer, he waved a dismissive hand. "If you want to buy something, just buy it. No need to ask. Consider it compensation."

Already shifting gears, he stood up as he added, "Jenna said she wants to help you choose your wedding dress. Come with me. We'll try on dresses for her to see."