My Left Hand and His Cold Heart

At the intermission of the concert, when the lights dimmed, Ethan Vances hand on mine slowly slipped away.

I stayed in the front row and watched him walk into the side corridor.

He found Chloe Davis there.

He cupped her face, leaned down, and kissed her.

Applause rose around us. Someone nearby said, Mr. Vance and Mrs. Vance really do have a strong marriage. Another voice followed, Even after all these years, theyre still so sweet.

I stood up and pushed through the crowd.

I walked right up behind them and tapped his shoulder.

Ethan Vance turned.

I lifted my left hand into the light. The missing knuckles on my fingers were exposed for everyone to see.

Youve got the wrong person.

The applause died midair.

Im June. I am your wife.

June Abbott POV

Even my own mother couldn't stand the sight of my imperfect left hand.

But it was the distinguished Ethan Vance who, under everyone's gaze, took that very hand.

We got married in just one month.

My family, the Abbotts, had raised me for twenty-four years, always terrified of anyone seeing my left hand with its missing ring finger.

No matter how pale my skin was, it couldn't hide that glaring flaw.

The guy I was supposed to marry, the one my parents had set me up with, was sitting in our living room. He was there to break things off.

One moment, he was praising my gentle nature. The next, he saw my left hand offering him tea, and he flinched, not even taking the cup.

From that day on, Mom wouldn't even let me serve tea.

"Just sit still. Don't move." Mom roughly pulled my sleeve down, her voice a hushed whisper. "Don't make people feel unlucky the moment they walk in."

I got used to shrinking into corners.

At the music shop, I used my right hand for writing, my right hand for turning sheet music.

My left hand was always clenched tightly in my lap, hidden in my sleeve.

If anyone glanced at it, I wanted to hide it behind my back.

Until that night at the charity concert.

I was still sitting in the most inconspicuous corner. On stage, Ethan had just finished his last piece.

Applause roared like a tide. Countless dignitaries and socialites, clutching flowers, waited for him in the aisles.

Ethan elegantly rose to bow, but he didn't take flowers from anyone.

He walked through the crowd, heading straight for the most secluded spot.

Under the astonished gazes of others, that tall figure stopped in front of me.

I panicked, clenching my left hand so tightly my nails dug deep into my flesh.

But Ethan slowly bent down.

His warm palm covered my cold hand, gently, irresistibly, one by one, unfolding my curled, deformed fingers.

The glaring spotlights shone down, exposing the imperfection I most wanted to hide to everyone's view.

My breathing stopped completely.

Anyone else would have frowned and looked away.

But Ethan just bowed his head, his thumb gently stroking my missing knuckle. He looked for a very long time.

He showed no disgust, nor did he let go.

In that moment, I heard my own frantic heartbeat.

So, in this world, there really was someone who could see my imperfection and was still willing to stand before me.

A month later, I married him.

Engagement, marriage registration, moving into the villa. It all happened so fast, like a dream.

Before leaving, Mom adjusted my veil, her words as harsh as ever. "The Vances agreeing to take you is your good fortune. Once you're married, don't let that hand make you a nuisance."

Sitting in the wedding car, I looked at my left hand.

The memory of Ethan gently unfolding it that night was all the courage I had to say yes.

But the sweetness of our new marriage lasted only a few days.

I soon realized that Ethan's thoughtfulness was layered with an unyielding ice.

At breakfast, I tried to reach for my cup with my left hand.

Ethan saw me. He thoughtfully pushed the cup closer.

But his fingers, brushing against the back of my hand, quickly recoiled.

On walks, I tried to offer him my left hand. Ethan would take it, but his palm's warmth was perfunctory. Once we crossed a street, he'd naturally let go.

At the dining table, I placed my hand near his.

He'd glance down at his documents, casually tap my fingertips as a response, then continue turning pages.

He never initiated holding my hand.

Every single time, I was the one who offered my imperfect left hand. He'd briefly hold it, like completing a task, then let go.

I started having sleepless nights.

I couldn't help but recall that concert night. He had unfolded my hand, gazed at it for so long.

But it turned out, he only ever unfolded it.

He never truly held it tight.

The villa's temperature was certainly warm, yet I felt a chill seeping into my very bones.

I stopped offering my hand, instead retreating it into my sleeve, just as I had in the Abbotts' house.

Ethan noticed my unusual behavior and, for once, actually asked, "Cold?"

I numbly nodded.

The next day, Ethan instructed the staff to turn up the underfloor heating by three degrees.

He was still the impeccable, faultless husband, but my heart sank further with each passing day.

Late that night, unable to sleep from anxiety, I went to his study to find him.

The study door was ajar, only a dim desk lamp illuminating the room.

Ethan sat with his back to the door, wearing headphones, his posture slightly hunched.

I was about to push the door open, but through the crack, I saw something that froze my blood.

Ethan, who was always composed and emotionally unreadable to the outside world, now sat with his eyes closed, tears silently streaming down his handsome face.

One hand pressed tightly against his headphones, as if desperately trying to catch every subtle sound inside, looking both desperate and out of control.

The headphones' noise cancellation was good, but the room was too quiet. A very faint female voice still leaked out.

"I can hear you."

In that instant, I felt like I was nailed to the spot, my fingertips turning icy cold.

That wasn't my voice.

After so long of marriage, Ethan was always courteous and considerate towards me, never raising his voice, yet he also never showed the slightest emotional fluctuation towards me.

All his pain, suppression, and loss of control, it turned out, were reserved for the woman in those headphones.

I stiffly lowered my head, looking at my left hand, hidden in my sleeve.

This hand, which he had publicly unfolded at the concert, which I had humbly offered countless times, and which he had politely and coldly released countless times.

It turned out, what I thought was salvation was nothing more than a misunderstanding.

I took a step back, shrinking my left hand deeper into my sleeve.

Through the door crack, Ethan still sat with his eyes closed, the tear stains on his face gleaming coldly in the dim light.

I retreated into the dark hallway, my loose sleeve falling, completely covering my imperfect left hand without a trace.

June Abbott POV

I then hired someone to investigate.

The investigation report quickly arrived.

The paper envelope was thin, yet it felt like a thousand pounds in my hand.

The private detective put the file down. Before leaving, he looked at me with a hesitant, sympathetic gaze. "Mrs. Vance, the latter part of the report... you should prepare yourself."

I sat alone in the silent room and broke the seal.

The first page caught my eye. At the top, a name: Chloe Davis.

I had heard that name.

In Seattle's socialite circles, Chloe Davis didn't have a good reputation. Capricious, arrogant, and bullying. That was almost everyone's assessment of her.

But I didn't know that Chloe and Ethan had been good friends since childhood.

The report detailed an old incident:

Years ago, on a rainy day, Ethan changed his piano practice location at the last minute.

Chloe Davis ran out to chase his car and was hit by a truck at an intersection.

Her life was saved, but due to brain damage, Chloe's hearing severely deteriorated, almost to deafness.

The sentences on the paper were cold.

My fingertips dug fiercely into the edge of the page.

I suddenly understood.

That night, Ethan in the study, wearing headphones, crying as he listened to "I can hear you"...

That wasn't a declaration of love at all.

That was the first thing Chloe Davis said to Ethan after her last rehabilitation surgery, when she regained her hearing.

He had recorded it, treated it as salvation, as a treasure, punishing himself with it over and over again every night.

I trembled as I flipped the page.

After Chloe's accident, Ethan frantically searched for doctors for her, contacted overseas rehabilitation centers, and all expenses were paid from his private account.

Every year on Chloe's birthday, the gifts he sent were the most exclusive custom-made hearing aids.

Tucked into the report were a few photos.

One showed Ethan standing at the entrance of a rehabilitation center, holding a precision instrument gift box.

Another showed Chloe Davis in a wheelchair, her eyes red-rimmed, looking up at him.

The last one was a dimly lit hospital corridor.

The distinguished and extraordinary Ethan bent down slightly, his expression incredibly gentle and focused, patiently adjusting the hearing aid behind Chloe's ear.

His movements were so light, so practiced.

I looked at the photos, my eyes stinging.

I thought of my left hand, which I had offered countless times after marriage.

He found even holding it for an extra second perfunctory, but it turned out he could be so careful and gentle when touching another woman.

However, a deeper, more brutal despair lay in the latter half of the report.

It was a doctor's diagnosis and rehabilitation recommendation.

"Patient Chloe Davis, after the car accident, suffers from severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Her psychological state is extremely fragile. It is recommended to keep her in a stable, routine relationship environment. Building a sense of family security by observing normal couple interactions can help reduce her fear of loneliness."

Below this sentence, a note in Ethan's handwriting, penned in ink:

"I need a quiet wife, preferably from a good background, emotionally stable, to maintain a long-term family setting."

"A quiet wife..."

I murmured the words, tears abruptly splattering onto the paper.

At this moment, I finally understood that charity concert completely.

There was no divine intervention, no salvation.

The reason Ethan walked towards me in the corner, under everyone's gaze, wasn't because he felt pity for my imperfect left hand, and certainly not because of love.

It was because I was sufficiently insecure, sufficiently quiet.

I had an imperfect hand, I had suffered neglect in the Abbotts' household. Just a tiny flicker of light, and I would obediently stay in the position of Mrs. Vance.

I was the perfect, faultless tool.

Ethan needed a perfect marriage in name, an act for the psychologically fragile Chloe Davis to observe.

He needed to use his seemingly happy family to heal another woman's trauma.

A low whimper escaped my throat.

I began to tremble uncontrollably.

The paper crumpled in my hands, my knuckles turning a horrifying white from the force.

No wonder he wouldn't touch me after we married.

No wonder he found even holding my hand for an extra second a burden.

Because this marriage, from beginning to end, was merely a meticulously planned scenario therapy.

In this house, I was just a prop in a display window. Whether this prop was called June Abbott or another name, Ethan simply didn't care.

He never walked towards me.

He merely chose my manageable insecurity at a time when I most longed for salvation.

The room was deathly quiet, save for the faint sound of paper being crushed.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside, a staff member passing by, then quickly fading away.

I didn't become hysterical, nor did I tear up the papers.

I just gritted my teeth, held back my tears, and then, with my imperfect left hand, carefully straightened and smoothed out the scattered documents, page by page.

The edges of the paper were sharp, cutting my fingertips and drawing tiny beads of blood, but I felt no pain.

I put the documents back into the envelope and tucked it into the deepest part of the drawer.

When I pushed the drawer shut, the wood caught for a moment.

The corner of the page, the one about observing normal couple interactions, peeked out.

I looked at it expressionlessly, then reached out and forcefully pushed the drawer all the way in.

All my self-deception, I personally locked away in the darkness.

June Abbott POV

I arranged to meet Ethan at the music shop three days after reading that investigation report.

I didn't ask about Chloe, nor about the "normal couple interaction model." Asking wouldn't change anything. I just wanted to try one more time, to put my left hand in front of him, to see if he would actually come over.

The music shop wasn't busy that afternoon. A few colleagues were organizing sheet music in the back. When Ethan walked in, I was already sitting at the piano by the window.

He checked the time. "Something wrong?"

I placed my left hand on the keys.

That hand was naturally imperfect; it couldn't play full chords. I'd practiced for many years, knowing how to avoid the empty spaces, how to make a one-handed piece sound less awkward.

When the first note fell, the shop quieted a bit.

Ethan stood behind me, his gaze on the keys. My left hand slowly moved between the black and white keys, the missing part of my finger always exposed. Each press required a little more force than for an average person.

The piece was short.

After the last note faded, my left hand remained on the keys. I looked up at Ethan.

"Could you teach me to play a four-hand duet?"

Ethan didn't speak immediately.

I finished my request. "I'll play the left-hand part, you play the right. Just once."

This was the first time I'd asked him for anything since our marriage.

Not a cup, not a car, not the title of Mrs. Vance. I wanted him to sit beside me and play one piece on the same piano.

Ethan's phone vibrated.

He looked down at the screen, his brows quickly furrowing.

I watched his expression change. I already knew who that expression belonged to.

"Chloe's rehab training didn't go well today." Ethan silenced his phone. "She's having a bit of a breakdown. I need to go to her."

My left hand, still on the keys, froze.

"This piece is very short," I said.

Ethan picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, walked over to me, and patted my shoulder.

"Next time."

The words were light, and familiar.

He turned and walked out. The music shop's glass door opened, and the chime above it rang once. His figure quickly disappeared down the street.

My colleagues in the shop had all stopped what they were doing.

Someone still held a stack of sheet music, another a polishing cloth. Their gazes fell on me, then quickly shifted away.

I sat at the piano, my left hand still on the keys.

The keys were cold. The chill crept up from my fingertips, along the back of my hand, to my wrist. The most constant thing Ethan left me was the coldness each time he let go.

A colleague softly called my name. "June?"

I looked down at the keys.

The four-hand duet music was still spread on the stand, the right-hand part densely noted. That part should have been played by Ethan, sitting beside me. Now the right side of the bench was empty, the corner of the sheet music fluttering in the breeze from the window.

I reached out my right hand and pressed down on the score.

The sounds of talking resumed in the shop. A customer trying out a piano could be heard from the other end. No one looked at me anymore, but that scene had been witnessed by everyone.

I sat for a long time.

When I finally lifted my left hand from the keys, faint white marks were pressed into my fingertips. I placed my right hand on the edge of the piano lid and slowly closed it.

The lid lowered with a soft thud.

The shop fell silent for another moment.

I closed the four-hand duet music book and put it back on the lowest shelf.

June Abbott POV

The day Chloe's hearing temporarily regressed, Ethan stayed at the rehab center all night.

I called him a few times, but the phone just rang unanswered. Later, I got the address from the driver, changed my shoes, and rushed over.

The rehab center's corridor was long, with stark white walls and lights, and tightly shut patient room doors. A nurse passed by me and asked, "Are you looking for Mr. Vance? Should I go in and tell him?"

I shook my head.

I thought Ethan would come out soon.

I stood outside the patient room in high heels. The heels were thin, the shoes stiff, and at first, my heels just felt warm. Minutes ticked by, and the nurse asked again. I still said no.

Occasionally, very low voices came from inside.

Ethan's voice was hushed, as if afraid of startling someone.

I moved closer to the wall, shifting my weight to my other foot. The shoe was rubbing against my skin, and the pain grew sharper. After more than an hour, I glanced down. The inside of the shoe was already stained dark red.

A blister had burst.

Blood clung to the leather, and every movement pulled at the wound.

The patient room door finally opened.

Ethan stepped out, his eyes bloodshot, his shirt sleeves rolled up. I instinctively angled my injured foot towards him.

"Ethan."

He saw me standing in the corridor, and his expression darkened a little. "What are you doing here?"

I leaned against the wall, my heel still bleeding. I was about to speak when Chloe let out a muffled groan from inside the room.

It was very faint.

Ethan immediately turned around.

He didn't even look down at my foot.

The door closed in front of me, a gust of air rushing from the gap, then quickly dying out.

I stood there, blood from my heel seeping down the shoe.

A few minutes later, Ethan came out again. He held a pair of slippers, blue plastic soles, with the rehab center's logo on the top.

He bent down and placed the slippers at my feet.

"Put them on."

I looked down at those slippers.

The edges of the soles still had a bit of dirt, and the front was creased from many people stepping on them. The communal items from the rehab center were now placed at my feet.

Ethan had already pulled out his phone. The screen was lit, Chloe's profile picture displayed.

"She wants an energy drink, a specific brand. The convenience store downstairs is about to close. I'll go buy it."

I looked up.

He remembered Chloe's needs so clearly. The brand, the time, when the convenience store closed. For the blood on my heel, he only left a pair of communal slippers.

"Ethan," I called him.

Ethan paused.

I asked, "Did you see my foot?"

He glanced back, his brow furrowed. "Just put on the shoes. Don't make a scene."

Another sound came from the patient room.

Ethan's patience snapped. He turned and walked towards the elevator, his steps quick. The corridor lights shone on his shoulder, and he didn't even put down his phone.

I stood there, watching the elevator doors open and close.

Those communal slippers remained in place at my feet.

I didn't put them on.

I bent down and took off my high heels, placing them against the wall. When my feet touched the ground, the cold tiles pressed against my skin. The wound tore open, and blood dotted the floor.

A nurse looked up at me from the station, startled. "Ma'am, your foot..."

I picked up my bag and walked out barefoot.

Every step hurt. The blood from my heel left faint marks on the corridor floor, trailing from the patient room door all the way to the elevator.

The communal slippers remained in their spot, their toes pointed in the direction I had left.