Chapter 1

At the intermission of the concert, when the lights dimmed, Ethan Vance’s 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, they’re 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.

“You’ve got the wrong person.”

The applause died midair.

“I’m 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.