, if it were a blueprint,

the career, the acclaim, and the woman, Sarah Jenkins. I came home to our apartment, the one I designed

t friend. There was no need for explanations. The scene spoke for itself, a wrecking

ts blurred through a haze of shock. I stumbled into the street, a car horn blared, and then there was a

eld the pencils and pens that brought my visions to life, was shattered. Multiple complex fractures, severe nerve damage. He said, "I'm sorry, Mr

our wedding, our venue, our guests. They took my place, my bride, my future, and held a lavish ceremony. The story hit the n

ragedy to be pitied

g echo of the deeper agony in my chest. I refused physical therap

ust a broken man in a hospital bed, a footnote in Mark Davis's triumphant story. He was already being lau

d crumbled, and I was buried somewhere in the rubble. This complete and utter ruin w