The disdain on Cynthia's and Diego's faces froze, turning into a flicker of confusion.

Then they exchanged a glance, then burst out laughing.

"You're calling the police?" Diego let out an exaggerated snort and swatted my phone out of my hand.

It hit the ground with a crack, its screen shattering instantly. He scoffed, "A cheap clay doll, and you're calling it a Class-One artifact? You got delusions or something? As if a broke nobody like you could handle real national treasures?"

Not only did he show zero remorse, but he doubled down, as if determined to expose my "act" with even more reckless behavior. He spun toward a nearby display case, where we'd just arranged a set of Revolutionary War-era silver goblets.

The security system wasn't fully activated yet; the glass cover was just loosely shut. Before I could react, he yanked it open and swept his arm across the shelves.

A cascade of shattering sounds followed, denser and more piercing than the figurine's crash. The goblets, shimmering iridescent under the lights, were reduced to a pile of glittering dust in an instant.

"I'm not just smashing that one today. I'm smashing the whole damn lot! What are you gonna do about it?" He pointed at the debris on the floor, taunting me. "Dollar-store crap, ten for a buck? Quit pretending."

He pulled out his wallet, fished out a $100 bill, and tossed it on the ground. "This should cover your whole cartload. Keep the change."

These were our nation's precious artifacts, and he was insulting everyone with a measly banknote.

Blood rushed to my head, making me dizzy with rage. These exhibits were invaluable and irreplaceable. His reckless destruction was erasing crucial pieces of our national history.

Cynthia stood there with arms crossed, watching coldly from the sidelines. Far from stopping him, she seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, her eyes filled with contempt as if she'd seen through all my "tricks".

"Henry, are you done throwing your tantrum?" she scoffed. "I get it—you still want me back. After all, with my family background, missing out on that would haunt you forever."

She paused, as if granting me some massive favor. "It's fine. Apologize to Diego for trying to scare him with this low-rent stunt. We'll let it slide, and if you still want to honor the engagement, I might consider it."

That was the woman I had loved for five years. She was arrogant, ignorant, and utterly foolish.

Diego linked arms with her, boasting in his showy tone, "Cynthia, you're way too kind to him. After everything he has pulled, you're still offering him a chance?"

Then he turned to me, his eyes overflowing with scorn and gloating. "You hear that? Cynthia has a soft heart, still hung up on old times. Aren't you gonna thank her?"

I spat right onto his shoe. "What you've destroyed today are genuine exhibits from the Smithsonian Institution. Every piece here is a real historical artifact. Not something you can just throw money at to insult. I've already called the authorities. The police are on their way. You're both in deep trouble."

Cynthia wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You're just after money, aren't you? Spinning these wild tales. Three years on, and you're still the same gold-digger."

She drew a Centurion card from her wallet and flicked it at my feet. Her voice was laced with impatience and condescension. "There's a million dollars on this. That should cover your whole room of trash, right? Take the money and drop the act. My patience has limits."

"A million dollars? To buy this room of trash?" I stared at the card lying amid the ruins of centuries-old artifacts, the irony burning like acid.

Every word they uttered felt like a red-hot iron searing my heart. This wasn't mere property damage or a squabble resolvable with cash—it was a blatant desecration of our nation's history and a vicious assault on the professional principles I'd upheld for years.

Slowly, I lifted my head, my gaze piercing through the wreckage to fix on Cynthia's smug face. When I saw the unbridled arrogance in her eyes, the last strand of my rationality snapped.

I surged to my feet. In their stunned silence, I raised my hand and, channeling every ounce of my fury, slapped her hard across the face.

The crisp, resounding slap echoed through the vast exhibit hall. The whole world seemed to go still.

Five clear finger marks bloomed across Cynthia's face.

She clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with disbelief. She probably never dreamed that the guy, who'd once followed her every whim and wouldn't even raise his voice, would hit her.

Without pausing, I turned to the equally shocked Diego and delivered a backhanded slap just as forceful. He yelped, staggering back and crashing into the display case behind him.

I shook my numb hand, the pent-up frustration in my chest finally finding release. Pointing at them, I roared with all my strength, "You two don't deserve to be citizens of this country!"

My rebellion, like those two stinging slaps, didn't just strike their faces—it shredded the last veneer of Cynthia's composure.

After a brief shock, rage boiled over them.

"Henry Pratt!" Cynthia growled, her eyes venomous as if ready to tear me apart. "You dare hit me? You're finished in this industry!"

She yanked out her phone, roughly swiped the screen, and dialed a number. The call connected, and she bellowed into it, her voice thick with furious indignation and ruthless certainty.

"Mom, it's me. I'm at the Smithsonian and ran into some trouble. Yeah, that jerk offended Diego and hit me," she said. "Call up the folks at the Interior Department and get him fired immediately."

She sneered, advancing on me step by step, her voice laced with ice. "I won't just get you canned from this job. I can ensure you're blacklisted from the entire cultural sector. Apologize to Diego now, or suffer the consequences!"

Bolstered by her support, Diego shook off his fear, his arrogance reigniting.

He rubbed his swollen cheek, his resentful eyes scanning me before settling on the hall's centerpiece: the Paul Revere silver pitcher with engraved liberty motifs, encased in bulletproof glass. It was a pinnacle of colonial craftsmanship, a one-of-a-kind national icon.

A manic gleam sparked in his eyes. "You say this is real? That all this stuff is genuine?"

He cackled shrilly, like a lunatic, and bolted toward the display. "Fine! I'll smash this one, too. Let's see how you keep up the act. Let's see how you're going to explain to your boss."

This had escalated beyond mere destruction. It was deranged vengeance.

"Don't you dare!" I shouted, my eyes widening as blood rushed to my head.

My body moved on instinct. I lunged forward like a possessed man, arms outstretched to shield the display with my own flesh, positioning myself between him and the treasure.

"Move!" he snapped, unhinged.

He shoved hard at me, trying to push me aside and topple the pitcher. In that split-second crisis, my heart pounded as if it might burst from my chest.

Then, with a bang, the exhibit hall's heavy doors flew open from the outside. "Freeze! ZCPD! Hands in the air!"