My husband, Evan Corven, has an extreme case of germophobia. We’ve been married five years, and we’ve never once shared a bed.
People whispered behind my back, calling me a hen that can’t lay eggs. Even my mother can barely hide her disap- pointment–forcing me down bitter herbal medicines, convinced they’ll somehow cure me.
I always tried to be understanding about Evan’s issues, swallowing my pride and keeping my mouth shut.
But one day, I brought him soup at his office, only to walk in on him French kissing his 20–year–old intern, his hands wandering to places that should have been off–limits.
Suddenly, I recalled the time I fainted from low blood sugar and instinctively reached out to steady myself against him. I’ll never forget how he scrubbed every spot I touched, rubbing until his skin turned red.
So, his “germaphobia” was just an excuse. He simply didn’t want to touch me.
“Baby, you’re so sweet.”
The sound of water and Evan’s syrupy sweet talk tangled together, so thickly it made me want to throw up.
The intern, Aveline Moren, pouted and teased, “Am I sweeter, or is your wife?
“Didn’t she say she was bringing you soup? Must be tough, an old woman trying so hard to save her marriage.”
“What?” Evan stiffened. “When did she say that? Let me call her.”
Right on cue, my phone rang. Numbly, I answered.
“Babe, I have to fly out to Portland for work today. Forgot to tell you–don’t bother bringing the soup.
“When I get back, it’ll be your birthday. I promise I’ll have a huge surprise for you.”
A surprise? I let out a bitter laugh. More like shock than joy, I’m sure.
Swallowing the ache in my chest, I replied, “Okay.”
He didn’t notice anything off in my voice, just let out a long sigh of relief and hung up.
The office door opened. I quickly ducked into the shadowy corner of the hallway.
Aveline strutted out in a miniskirt, her pale thighs brushing against Evan’s dress pants. “You lied to your wife about the business trip, so you’d better make it up to me.”
Evan’s voice was thick with desire. “I’ll make sure you’re satisfied, you little minx.”
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My stomach lurched. I had to steady myself against the wall, dry–heaving, tears streaming down my face.
We’d been together ten years, married for five, and it turns out I was nothing but the punchline to a sick joke.
Suddenly, a booking notification from Whisper Garden Love Hotel popped up on my phone. Evan, ever impatient, must have forgotten his membership was tied to my card.
For a long moment, I just stared at the screen. Then, almost on autopilot, I opened the tracking app I hadn’t touched in five years.
Back when we first got married, Evan set up the app for me, smiling as he said, “With this, you’ll always know where I am, no matter what I’m doing.”
All these years, I’d trusted him completely. I never even opened it.
But today…
“Stop it, not there!” Aveline’s voice was coy.
“What’s the problem? There’s nowhere I haven’t kissed you.”
Their moans and laughter spilled through the phone. I let out a bitter, self–mocking laugh.
His so–called “germaphobia” felt like a slap across my face–a sting that went straight to my heart.
Aveline’s voice turned sultry. “Evan, didn’t you say you never loved her? Why are we keeping this a secret?”
“She owns half the company,” Evan replied, his voice rough. “A divorce would be too much trouble. But I’ve never even touched her. You’re the only one I want, you little temptress.”
Aveline pouted. “I don’t care. Figure it out.”
Evan sighed indulgently. “Alright. For you, I’ll make sure she leaves with nothing.”
I felt the blood in my veins freeze solid.
Years ago, when the Corven family’s finances were in shambles, I invested everything my late father left me to rescue Evan’s company.
Back then, he gave me half the shares and, with tears in his eyes, promised, “Elira, I’ll always treat you well. I’ll never let you down.”
But now, not only was he tangled up with a girl half my age–he wanted to take everything from me.
I closed my eyes, hands shaking as I dialed my lawyer. “Put me in touch with the person who wanted to buy my shares. I’m ready to sell.”
He sounded surprised. “Ms. Vance, didn’t you want to draft a transfer agreement for your husband?”
“I’ve changed my mind.” I let out a bitter laugh. “And send me the divorce papers I left with you.”
Those were the papers Evan signed right after our wedding.
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He said if he ever did something I couldn’t forgive, I should leave without hesitation.
Neither of us ever thought those words would come true.
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