The Scorched Ring Finger

Chapter One: The hand that should have worn the ring

The first thing I noticed, wasn’t actually the pain. But the smell. Burnt skin has a way of piercing your memory before your brain even reacts. I was standing in my childhood kitchen, a wet towel wrapped around my left hand, trying to convince myself that those blisters were not as serious as they looked.

But they are more serious than imagined. My parents had always treated me as a bargain, not a daughter. When I graduated from college and started designing buildings in Chicago, one of the first things my father asked me was if the job would lead to any useful connections.

When my brother failed another class, my mother baked him an apple pie because she thought it was so hard for boys to suffer setbacks. When I brought Noah home, their eyes looked like they were looking at a bill they hadn’t signed off on.

Noah is an elementary school music teacher. He cries when he watches animal rescue commercials. He naively thought that as long as you smiled brightly enough, the pancakes could be saved. He was kind, steady, and definitely not the rich guy my parents handpicked for me.

They fancy Ethan Carlisle. Heir to a car dealership. Real estate investor. A crisp suit. Family assets. A last name that my father would show off at dinner parties. Every time I went home to visit relatives, it turned into a cookie-cutter sermon.

Ethan makes me feel safe. Noah could only bring me struggle. Ethan knows what ambition is. Noah only knows how to teach singing to third-grade children. Two months before the wedding, my father slammed a folder onto the dining room table.

It’s filled with title deeds, accounts, promises and traps.

“Marry Ethan,” he said, “and it will all be yours.”

I pushed the folder back.

“I’m going to marry Noah.”

My father stood up suddenly and his chair hit the wall hard.

“If you go with him in a wedding dress, don’t call yourself our daughter again.”

I picked up the handbag with both hands - that was the period when the fingers of my hands could still move normally - and said coldly: “I didn’t intend to do that.”

For the next three weeks, they did nothing. Until one day, my mother called me. Her voice was so gentle that I almost believed her. She invited me home for tea. She said they didn’t want to lose their daughter.

She hugged me at the door, the first thing she had done in months. For this humble second of longing for family affection, I actually had a trace of fantasy. The kitchen is filled with the aroma of lavender candles and freshly ground coffee.

My father was sitting at the table, so calm that I would feel creepy when I think about it in the future. When he was so friendly, I was defenseless. My mother put a mug in front of me and said it was my favorite.

I reached for it. My father suddenly grabbed my wrist tightly, and I even heard the chair underneath me making a harsh friction sound. Before I could break free, my mother directly lifted the kettle on the stove and poured boiling water on the back of my left hand.

The scream he let out at that moment was not like what a human could make. I threw myself down on the dining table, knocking the mug aside. My hand seemed to have detached itself from my body and turned into a ball of pure fire.

Mother put down the kettle as gracefully as if she had just watered a pot of flowers. My father looked at my trembling finger - the hand that should have worn Noah’s ring, and smiled slightly.

“If you can’t wear a ring, you can’t get married.”

The mother made up for it almost gently: “If you change your mind now, you still have time to choose Ethan.”

I didn’t curse them. I didn’t beg too hard. Somewhere inside me, I became quieter than ever before. I wrapped my hands in a towel, walked out of the spotless kitchen, held the steering wheel with one hand, stepped on the accelerator, tears blurred every traffic light, and drove to the emergency room alone.

At St. Catherine’s Hospital, when the triage nurse saw my hand, her face changed drastically and she immediately pushed me into the emergency room. While the doctor was cleaning my burned surface, he asked me how it was done.

I opened my mouth. Years of obedient instincts came to mind first. Protect the family. Calm down the trouble. Don’t embarrass your parents. Just then, a woman wearing a navy blue pantsuit and holding a leather folder appeared outside the curtain.

“Hannah Brooks?” she asked.

I nodded. She showed me her name tag.

“Rebecca Collins. Hospital forensic nurse.”

My stomach dropped. Rebecca looked at my bandages. Looked at my face again. Her voice was low.

“Before you decide how much effort you will put into protecting them, I need you to understand one thing. This burn mark is already telling us a story.”

I swallowed.

“What story?”

She leaned down and examined my hands, careful to avoid the blistered skin.

“The path of the liquid pour was very restrained. The bruises on the wrists indicate that you were forcefully compressed. The burns were concentrated on the back of the left hand, not the palm.”

I turned my face away. She didn’t. Then she uttered the words that changed everything.

“Besides, this looks so familiar.”

I turned my head.

“What does this mean?”

Rebecca’s face tightened.

“This means that you are not the first woman to come to this hospital with an injured 'proposal hand' and is about to marry into the Carlisle family.”

The ward seemed to be spinning. The sharp pain in my hand became distant.

“What?”

Rebecca closed the curtain behind her.

“Two women. Four years apart. Both had been engaged or forced into marriage to the Carlisle family. Both arrived with injuries that were explained as 'kitchen accidents.' One was scalded by boiling water. The other had a broken hand. Both canceled their weddings afterwards. And both signed confidential settlement agreements before anyone could investigate.”

There was a lump in my throat.

“No.”

“I’m not asking you to believe me right now,” Rebecca said. “I’m just asking you to stop lying to people who may not be doing this for the first time.”

In my bag, my phone vibrated. It was Noah calling. I didn’t call him. I don’t dare. If I heard his voice, I would be absolutely devastated. Rebecca looked at me silently and hesitated.

“Is that your fiancé?”

I nodded.

“Do you feel safe around him?”

The answer came out before Fear could even speak.

“Yes.”

“Then call him.”

I pressed the screen with my right thumb. Noah got through on the first ring.

“Hannah? Where are you? Your mom just texted you that you need to calm down and the wedding has been postponed. What happened?”

My eyes became moist.

Rebecca silently took my phone, pressed the speakerphone, and said in a deep voice: “Mr. Brooks, this is Rebecca Collins, a forensic nurse at St. Catherine’s Hospital. Hannah is safe. She needs you now. Please rush to the emergency entrance immediately, and do not bring anyone from both families.”

Noah’s voice choked up momentarily.

“What happened to her?”

Rebecca looked at me. I nodded slightly.

“She was attacked.”

A terrible second of silence followed.

Then, Noah said firmly: “I’ll be there soon.”