Chapter 1

On our wedding anniversary, I put on sexy lingerie and nervously sent my sexually indifferent husband a selfie.

Our chat history was nothing but 1s and 2s.

Me: "Working late tonight?"

Him: "1" — meaning yes.

Me: "Coming home tonight?"

Him: "2" — meaning no.

This time, instead of a number, he sent a 60-second voice message.

I played it. A woman's moans came through:

"Wait until I finish having sex with Professor Moore, then I'll send him back."

"You take care of his daily needs. I'll take care of his physical needs. Nice and clear division of labor."

My hands trembling, I closed the app, got dressed, and drove to the lab.

Through the crack in the door, I saw Ethan holding a woman, moving wildly.

Heavy breathing, stifled moans — he had never treated me like that.

But I was his wife.

I stood outside the door for a very, very long time. Finally, I raised my hand and knocked.

When Ethan emerged, his expression was calm. Not a trace of embarrassment at being caught in the act.

His dark eyes settled on my face. After a moment's pause, he spoke deliberately: "Let's talk about this at home."

His slender hand reached toward me.

I didn't move.

For the past twenty years, whether it was dates, confessions, proposals, or even the pathetically rare sex we had — I'd initiated all of it.

"Fiona?"

For once, he used my nickname, but his head was still tilted to the side, his gaze directed behind him.

Looking at that woman whose face he was carefully blocking with his body, shielding her from view.

My nose stung.

I forced a dry laugh: "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

Only then did he turn his head. The look in his eyes now held guilt and pleading.

"Fiona, can we just go home first? Please?"

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed my collar and roughly pulled me aside.

Then he turned back and gently instructed the woman: "You should go. Quickly!"

The clicking of high heels drew closer and closer.

Ethan's gaze followed her retreating figure, growing more distant.

He watched her so intently that he didn't even notice the cut on my cheek from where I'd been scraped against a nail on the wall.

Ethan hadn't always been this cold to me.

During those college years when his condition improved, he'd acted like a normal person, caring about my joys and sorrows.

After we married, he'd cancel urgent meetings and experiments on nights when I had my period, using his burning palms to warm my stomach. He'd clumsily write me love letters by hand before my birthday, trying to make up for the regrets of our youth.

But those warm, sweet memories couldn't compete with the pain on my face right now.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I forced them back.

Taking a deep breath, I shook off his hand: "Stop looking. She's gone."

His body stiffened. He hesitated, not daring to turn around.

This time I didn't wait for him. I headed to the car first.

We arrived home close to 11 PM.

The moment I changed out of my shoes, hands lifted me from behind and placed me on the sofa.

I turned to see Ethan retrieving the first aid kit, kneeling before me. The concern in his eyes didn't seem fake.

"I'm sorry..."

I didn't respond, letting him carefully treat my wound while his neck was still covered in hickeys.

Just like years ago when we exchanged wedding rings, when he'd publicly vowed to love me forever.

The same posture.

The same eyes.

But everything had changed.

Blood-stained cotton balls fell into the trash. As Ethan closed the first aid kit, I held out my hand to him:

"Your phone."

He didn't move, but the concern in his eyes faded, replaced by barely suppressed impatience.

"Don't make trouble for her. I'll end things with her."