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."