"It turns out Mr. Hatfield is really sick. No wonder he's so crazy!"

"His attending physician of two years has spoken—there's no denying it now."

"All that youth and good looks, and he's insane. Such a shame."

"What's there to feel sorry about? Just because he's crazy, does that mean he shouldn't be held accountable for hurting people? If anything, Howard's the one who deserves our sympathy."

My assistant, Norman Lowry, was growing agitated behind me.

He patted me on the shoulder, his expression panicked. "Mr. Hatfield, we didn't seem to have prepared for this."

No, we hadn't.

This was the same ploy that took me down in my previous life.

After discovering that Samantha and Howard had swindled away all my inheritance, I had indeed broken down emotionally. However, it was nowhere near the point of being diagnosed with a mental illness.

Yet, it was precisely that breakdown that Samantha exploited to set up such an elaborate trap.

When Dr. Griffin produced that forged, dozens-of-pages-long "medical record", I had no words to defend myself.

All my resistance and screaming were effortlessly dismissed as nothing more than the ravings of someone having an episode.

In the end, they used a single psychiatric evaluation to legally strip me of everything.

But this time, things were different.

I drew a deep breath, suppressing the roaring thirst for revenge in my chest. This was it—the moment everything hinged on.

I fixed my gaze on the sanctimonious Dr. Griffin and said calmly, "Dr. Griffin."

Dr. Griffin raised his eyes to look at me, still wearing that mask of pity and compassion.

"Mr. Hatfield, I understand this is very difficult for you to accept right now, but the fact is—"

I cut him off with a smile. "You said you've been my attending physician for two years. Then surely, you can tell me when our last session was."

Dr. Griffin hadn't expected me to ask that, but he went along with the fabricated report nonetheless.

"It was a week ago." He then added, "Memory confusion is common after episodes of this illness, so it's perfectly normal that you don't remember."

I kept smiling. "In that case, you must recall when I scraped my arm on the rigging during a sailing trip two weeks ago, right?"

At this question, Dr. Griffin visibly froze. He looked to Samantha for help, but she was equally bewildered. Two weeks ago, I hadn't even been here, so she had no idea about any sailing injury.

Staring at my long-sleeved dress shirt, Dr. Griffin had no choice but to bluff his way through.

"Ah, of course. Are you feeling better now?"

My smile deepened, and I raised both hands.

Norman immediately caught on. He carefully unfastened the diamond cufflinks from my sleeves and slowly rolled my shirt cuffs up to my elbows.

Under the lights, the skin of my arms was smooth, the muscle lines lean and flawless.

"I've never gone sailing in my life, because I get seasick." My voice reverberated through the silent hall. "And I've never been injured. Dr. Griffin, you answered with such certainty just now, so why is it that you're the one looking like the person with memory confusion?"

Dr. Griffin sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes filled with utter panic.

"How credible can a diagnosis possibly be from an attending physician who knows nothing about his patient's most basic preferences or physical condition?"

With a courteous smile fixed on my face, I stared him down. Then, as the last word fell, my voice shot up abruptly.

"It seems to me you've forgotten how when your precious son lost three million dollars gambling in Averham last year and got held hostage with the threat of having his hands chopped off, it was Samantha who helped you settle the debt."