Love I Can No Longer Touch

There isn't any cure for migraines.

But my billionaire wife, Ashley Weston, has not had a single migraine for years thanks to my daily massage with both hands.

On the day I get into a car accident, I beg a passerby to call her to save me.

She replies impatiently, "So you're resorting to such shameless tricks just because I won't answer your calls?"

Through the phone comes the mocking laughter of her childhood friend, Jordan Hanson.

My right hand is permanently fractured, and my left hand suffers from muscle weakness after the accident.

A lawyer helps me draft a divorce agreement. With much difficulty, I sign it and send it to Ashley.

On the day her head throbs with unbearable pain, she looks at my drooping hands and remains silent for a long time.

Even though she hadn't had one in ten years, Ashley came to the hospital hoping to cure her migraines.

However, she never expected to run into me in a hospital room.

Jordan was openly holding her hand and glaring at me tauntingly. It was as if I, her legitimate husband, didn't exist in this room.

I lay there quietly, staring coldly at the ceiling.

"Just because we had a fight, you're going to be this petty?" Ashley turned to look at the sign for the orthopedic trauma department. Her tone was dripping with sarcasm. "You're not missing any limbs, so what kind of trauma do you have?"

During the car accident, my hands—the very ones that had massaged Ashley for ten years—were pinned under the wheels. My right hand had a hairline fracture, while my left hand was starting to go numb. Yet, there wasn't a single visible scratch on the surface.

A nurse passed by. Ashley carefully steadied Jordan, terrified he might get bumped. But when she spoke to me, she didn't even lift her head.

"I'll have the standalone villa at 7 Laurel Court transferred to your name. You can also pick any car from the garage. Once you're done pretending to be sick, come home. It's been three days since you last gave me a massage. Is this any proper way to treat your wife, you heartless jerk?"

Her tone was icy-cold, as if she were dealing with a housekeeper who'd decided to go on a strike.

Nothing could cure Ashley's migraines except my massages.

Before we got married, I had just learned how to give massages, so I'd always end up messing up her hair. She'd grumble and fuss, saying she didn't want me to feel taken advantage of. She would go out of her way to buy me gifts.

However, somewhere along the way, the surprise of receiving gifts turned into the numbness of collecting payment, just like an escort after his service.

Worse yet, the person she truly cared about was not me anymore.

I propped my chin up with my left hand, the one I could barely use, and laughed heartily.

"You think a villa and a car