"You've had a hard time taking care of our son these past few days." My voice was soft, slightly hoarse from crying, but devoid of any emotion. "I specially made some bird's nest porridge to help you recover."
"It was my clumsiness that caused the bowl to break." I lowered my eyes, hiding the hatred surging within them, and spoke in a gentle voice, just as I always had. "I didn't dare bother you because I was afraid you would worry."
His tense back suddenly relaxed, and a sigh of relief fell on my head. Then, his warm hands pulled me tightly into his arms. The familiar scent of cedar lingered in my nostrils. Once upon a time, this scent was my armor against all the storms of the world, but now it only made my stomach churn.
"Silly girl, how did you get yourself into this state?" He looked down, his fingertips gently stroking the wound on my ankle, his voice filled with deep tenderness. "It would break my heart to see you like this."
He knelt down and picked up my foot without any disgust, his big toe carefully stroking the bleeding skin. The anxiety and heartache in his eyes were so realistic that I almost believed it.
But I remember clearly how he spoke the most vicious words in that gentle, tender tone in the study. When he fed our son cashews with his own hands, did he show even the slightest bit of reluctance in his eyes? When he arranged that car accident, did he ever think that I would feel pain too?
As I watched his thick eyelashes droop, concealing the calculation in his eyes, I felt a chill run through me. His heart had long since belonged to Vanessa, to the woman who could bear him an "heir." My son and I were merely two stumbling blocks on his path to "true love."
I remained silent, letting him turn around and rummage through the first-aid kit. As the iodine swab touched the wound, a sharp, stinging pain spread through my nerves to every part of my body. I bit my lower lip tightly, not uttering a sound. His movements were gentle and patient; the warmth of his fingertips seeped through the gauze, numbing my skin.
After treating my wound, he stood up, took my hand, and gently stroked my pale fingertips with his fingertips, his voice as tender as a lover's whisper: "Clara, we should go to the hospital to donate blood."
The words "blood donation" were like a needle, precisely piercing my feigned calm.