Chapter 2

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.