Ye Ling was taken aback. She sat down on the sofa with the medicine box and took out a box of burn ointment. "With your worth of billions, who dares to say you're useless?"
"But I can't even fry an egg properly." Shen Junlie was really frustrated, and his low voice was full of grievances.
Ye Ling squeezed some ointment onto a cotton swab, held his wrist with the other hand, and brought his hand close to her eyes. His fingers were long and the joints were distinct.
The back of his hand was very white, showing blue veins, and his nails were neatly trimmed. His fingers were evenly long, and he had a pair of hands that were suitable for art.
Ye Ling's hand slid down from his wrist, pinched his little finger, and applied the ointment to the burn while saying, "Everyone has their own specialty. Your hand is suitable for holding a pen or playing the piano."
As soon as she mentioned the word "piano," Ye Ling fell silent, feeling a sting in her heart.
