His innocent wife is a dangerous hacker.

Chapter 765 Dr. Raymond Ray

"Fourth," the host said, "we recognize a student from the finance department. Third year. Please welcome James Hall."

A young man walked onto the stage. He was tall and lanky with limbs that seemed too long for his body, like a puppy who had not yet grown into his paws. His blonde hair was messy, falling across his forehead. His blue eyes were wide, bright and nervous. His face was full of freckles, scattered across his nose and cheeks like tiny constellations.

He wore a simple gray suit that was slightly too large for him, the sleeves bunched at his wrists, the pants pooling around his ankles. He looked like he had borrowed it from an older brother or bought it at a thrift store.

He looked nervous and excited, his hands shaking as he accepted the plaque.

"James," the host said, her voice warm and encouraging, "you have been donating to students in need on campus. Can you tell us more?"

James nodded, swallowing hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. "I, uh, I started a small business last year. Online. It did better than I expected." He laughed nervously, a high, breathy sound. "A lot better. So I decided to give back. I have been donating to students who need help with tuition, books, and living expenses. Things I struggled with when I first started."

The audience murmured with approval. A few people nodded. Someone in the back row whispered to their neighbor.

"And recently," James continued, his voice growing stronger, "I made a donation to City Hospital in honor of someone very special."

The host tilted her head. "Who is that?"

James smiled, a soft, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "A student here on campus. She has been through so much, but she never gives up. She is an inspiration to me and to everyone." He looked out at the audience, his blue eyes scanning the sea of faces. "Krystal."

Bella smiled as she watched him speak.

"I donated a large sum to City Hospital in her name," James said. "To support her mother’s treatment. Krystal, wherever you are, thank you for being you. Thank you for showing me what strength looks like."

The audience applauded. A few people turned to look at Krystal, who was sitting near the front, her white dress glowing under the lights but her smile had wiped out.

Didn’t this guy tell her he was doing it secretly? Why was he telling everyone about this?

Her heart pounded. Her palms were suddenly sweaty. She forced her smile back into place but it felt wrong, stiff, painted on.

Calm down, she told herself. No one knows anything. No one can prove anything.

She relaxed slightly, her shoulders dropping.

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In the middle of the audience, a man frowned.

He was middle aged, with gray streaking his dark hair and tired lines around his eyes that came from too many sleepless nights and too much worry. He wore a simple jacket and trousers, not expensive, not flashy. His shoes were scuffed at the toes. His hands were rough and calloused.

His name was Dr. Raymond Ray, and he was the physician who had been treating Krystal’s mother for the past two years.

He had never received a donation from Krystal. Not a single dollar.

He had been treating her mother free of charge, out of compassion and humanity, because the woman was sick and dying and had no one else to turn to. He had prescribed medications he paid for out of his own pocket. He had made house calls on his days off.

He had watched Krystal come to the hospital in old, worn out clothes, her face pale, her eyes tired, her hair unwashed. He had believed her when she said she had no money, no family and no one to help.

He had believed her.

Now he watched her sit in the front row of the college auditorium, wearing an expensive white dress, her hair curled into perfect waves, her makeup flawless, her nails painted. He watched her smile and wave and accept the applause like she deserved it.

His eyes flashed with anger.

He had been played. He had been used. He had been treating a woman for free while her daughter wore designer dresses and attended college galas. And if he ignored all of this, what about the donations? Their hospital had not received any donations from any source in the past year. Not a single dollar.

His hands gripped the armrests of his seat. His knuckles went white. His jaw tightened. His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising and falling with each angry exhale.

He looked at James on stage, the young man with the freckles and the too large suit, who had donated money he thought was going to help a sick woman. The young man who had been lied to.

Dr. Raymond’s anger grew. He was a man of morals. He was a man of integrity. He could not let this stand.

He looked at Krystal again. She was laughing at something her friend said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, glowing with triumph. She looked like she did not have a care in the world.

He looked at the stage, at the lights, at the plaque in James’s hands.

He stood up.

The people around him looked at him, confused. A woman to his left touched his arm. "Sir? Are you alright?"

He ignored her.

He walked up the aisle toward the stage. People turned to watch him. Whispered questions followed in his wake.

Who is that? What is he doing?

The host noticed him, her eyes widening. She stepped back from the podium, her hand hovering over the microphone. "Sir? Can I help you? This is a private event—"

Dr. Raymond did not stop. He walked onto the stage, his footsteps echoing through the speakers, his face hard, his eyes fixed on Krystal.

James stepped back, startled, nearly dropping his plaque.

"Sir—" the host tried again.