Chapter 1

My mom always said I was lucky that I married a saint.

Three years ago, I would've agreed with her without hesitation.

Jenson Powell was seven years older than me, the youngest law professor in the city. He had a cold, refined beauty—gold-rimmed glasses, an almost ascetic calm.

When he stood at a lectern, even his breathing felt controlled, restrained, and untouchable.

I first met him at my father's funeral.

He wore black and stood quietly at the back of the crowd. Only after everyone else had left did he walk forward, stopping in front of my father's portrait for a long time.

I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. He handed me a pack of tissues and a cup of warm milk.

Then he said, his voice low and steady, "Your father took good care of me when I was younger. If you ever need anything, you can come to me."

I looked up at him and thought he looked like a perfectly composed painting—every line intentional, nothing wasted.

Three months later, he proposed.

I thought it was a joke.

"Your father asked me to look after you before he passed," he said, adjusting his glasses, completely serious. "I've thought about it. The best way to do that is to marry you."

I was twenty-two, hopelessly romantic, and fully convinced this was fate.

The professor my father once taught, secretly in love with me all along, appeared at my lowest point like some scripted miracle.

Honestly, it felt like the kind of story I'd read before—Billionaire Professor Falls in Love With Me.

I said yes on the spot.

The first month of marriage really was sweet.

He made breakfast every morning, remembered my cycle without fail, picked me up late at night when I worked overtime, and even warmed my slippers on the heater before handing them to me.

My best friend Mollie Watts once said, "Did you save the world in your previous life or something?"

I told her, "I think I saved the entire universe."

But there was one problem.

I was a shamelessly dirty-minded mess of a woman, and I had married a man who felt like a living saint.

******

By the third month of marriage, I started to notice something was off.

Our sex life was basically scheduled—once a week, and that was the end of it.

Yeah, just once a week, no more, no less.

Every Saturday night, after Jenson and I showered, he'd turn off the lights, and the whole thing never lasted more than fifteen minutes.

When it was over, he'd kiss my forehead, then get up to grab a warm towel from the bathroom and clean me up.

After that, he'd even apply some medicine for me.

He'd say, "I'm worried it might hurt you."

Seriously, I was in my twenties, used to running track. I didn't need him slapping ointment on me after sex.

But he was so gentle, and his hands were so careful that if I said no, I'd just look like a total jerk.

And the craziest part was that after we finished, he'd actually wash my bra and panties, by hand, with special lingerie detergent, no less.

Then he'd hang them up on the balcony, perfectly lined up and looking like a display.

When Mollie Watts, my friend, heard me describe it, she paused for three seconds and then said, "Girl, that's not a husband. That's a man-mom."

There really was something weird about this.

But I couldn't quite say what it was because he really was good to me—so good I couldn't find a single flaw.

But still, something just felt off.

It just wasn't enough.

Every time he wiped his glasses and said, "Get some sleep," I just wanted to grab him by the collar and yell, "Can't you stop being so rational for once? Can't you just..."

Why couldn't he just pin me against the wall like in my dreams, look at me with those wild eyes, and tell me he wanted me?

But I didn't say it because whenever I tried to get a little bold, he'd softly brush me off.

"It's too late, we've got work tomorrow."

"Let's take a shower first."

"You're tired, you should rest."

One time, I just couldn't take it anymore. While he was prepping his lessons, I came up behind him, wrapped my arms around him, and slid my hand under his clothes.

He caught my hand, turned around, the glow from his computer screen shining in his glasses, his expression calm as ever. "Quit it, I'm working on my paper."

"Come on, just keep writing. I'm not distracting you," I said.

"You are," he said, pulling my hand out and pressing a kiss to it. "Go get some water."

Drink your damn water.

Still fuming, I went to the living room to get some water, and just then, Mollie texted me. [So, how's it going? It's Saturday. Did you guys do the deed?]

I replied: [Yep, fifteen minutes, foreplay included.]

Mollie: [Wait, fifteen minutes including foreplay? Is he, like, not up to it or something?]

I said: [It's not that he can't. It's that he's so good, one round is all it takes.]

Mollie: [Damn, what a waste. Are you saving a guy like that for New Year's or something?]

I said: [He's really good to me.]