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The camera flashes were blinding, a storm of light. My fiancé, Ethan, stood at the podium, his hand clutching mine, whispering sweet nothings for the reporters. He declared his eternal love, sacrificing his ambitions for my "crippled" self, the pianist whose dream was tragically cut short. But an hour earlier, I'd overheard him and my best friend, Bella. "Her hands... are they permanently damaged?" Bella whispered. "Completely," Ethan confirmed, his voice chillingly cold. "The 'accident' was flawless. She\'s a cripple, Bella. You have nothing to worry about." My world shattered. The car crash, the botched surgery-all a meticulously planned lie. My supposed recovery was overseen by Dr. Ben, who had helped Ethan ensure I would never play again. I lay in a hospital bed, my bandaged hands a testament to their cruelty, left to grapple with the shocking betrayal. How could the man who promised me forever, the one I loved, orchestrated such a heinous plot? The deeper I looked, the more horrifying truths unravelled: I was drugged for months to appear unstable, and the tragic miscarriage I suffered wasn\'t natural-he had murdered our unborn child. The love I thought was real was a delusion, a carefully constructed cage. With nothing left to lose, and fueled by a cold, searing rage, I stopped merely existing. I was no longer a victim. I was a survivor, and I would make them pay. My escape wasn't just about leaving; it was about orchestrating their downfall, piece by agonizing piece.