Chapter 1

After three years of marriage, my husband, Lucas Grant, was still the absolute definition of an ice-cold professor.

He couldn't stand any emotional drama or physical touch.

If I tried to hold his hand, he'd grab a disinfectant wipe and scrub his fingers for five whole minutes.

On our anniversary, when I went in for a hug, Lucas gave me that chilly stare and pushed me away, insisting I keep at least three feet between us.

Half a year ago, I was on the scene as a frontline reporter, covering a sudden fire at his lab at Westbridge University.

Trapped in the thick smoke, I completely broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as I wrapped my arms around his waist, begging him to take me out of there.

But Lucas pried my fingers off one by one. He said, "Julia, can you stop screaming like a lunatic?"

He left me behind in the middle of the fire, turning his back on me to help evacuate the others.

I spent nine days and nights in a coma in the ICU before I finally pulled through.

After that, I learned to keep all my passion bottled up.

I stopped speaking loudly and made sure not to get within two feet of him to match his so-called refined, restrained demeanor.

But every time Lucas saw me, his eyes were still cold and emotionless.

I thought this was his inherent, untouchable nature.

Until one day, I went to his office again, and through the half-open door, I saw something that completely flipped my world upside down.

The guy who always acted allergic to touch was softly wiping tears from the corner of his twenty-year-old student, Nina Lane's, eyes with his fingers.

He even took a sip from her coffee, right after she did.

Turned out, he wasn't naturally cold or some obsessive germ freak. He was just disgusted by me.

Lucas had no clue that in three days, I'd be signing up for a war zone assignment.

So, after ten years of trying to make it work, it was time to let go for good.

*****

I silently let go of the doorknob.

The wind blew through the hallway, making me shiver.

Half an hour ago, Lucas texted me, telling me not to come to his office.

He said he was analyzing important experimental data and couldn't handle any distractions or scent.

I believed him.

I was worried his stomach issues might flare up, so I made him some clear pastas, and was going to quietly set it on the table outside his office.

But the door wasn't shut all the way.

Through the crack, I saw the guy who always acted like a germaphobe and couldn't stand being touched, cradling Nina's face in both his hands.

He didn't have his usual sterile gloves or a disinfectant wipe anywhere.

Lucas used his fingertips to softly wipe away the tears from the corners of the twenty-year-old girl's eyes.

There was a half-finished cup of coffee sitting on the table.

Nina, tears streaming down her face, took a sip.

Lucas lowered his head and drank from the place, right after her.

My stomach twisted in knots.

After ten years of marriage, Lucas never shared a single dish or cup with me.

At home, we had two totally separate sets of plates and silverware.

If I touched a cup, he'd throw it out right away.

Lucas always claimed it was some physical defect; he got totally grossed out by other people's saliva or body heat.

Turned out, he wasn't naturally cold or some obsessive germ freak.

The truth was, he just found me repulsive.

I didn't go in.

Holding the plate of pasta that was growing cold in my hands, I turned and walked out of the Westbridge University lab building.

As I reached the school gate, my phone buzzed like crazy.

My editor sent an urgent assignment.

There was a major riot breaking out in the East District; thugs were wreaking havoc in the streets, and they needed a frontline reporter to cover it live, ASAP.

I tossed the insulated food container into the trash and flagged down a cab.

The scene was pure chaos.

Thick black smoke shot up into the sky, and people were shoving and scrambling through the streets.

I stood behind the police tape, camera in hand, recording the chaos.

Suddenly, a masked rioter broke through the barricade, swinging a wooden club studded with nails right at me.

I couldn't react in time; the club slammed into my shin.

The sickening crack of bone breaking echoed in my ears.

I hit the ground hard, my arm slashed open by jagged shards of glass scattered everywhere.

Blood poured out, turning my sleeve crimson in seconds.

The crowd trampled right over me.

Agonizing pain surged from my leg, flooding my whole body, and every breath I took was thick with the taste of blood.

I fumbled for my phone and dialed Lucas's number.

The dial tone dragged on forever before he finally picked up.

I said, "Lucas, I'm hurt. I'm in the East District..."

Before I could finish, Nina's soft, delicate voice came through the phone. "Mr. Grant, I still can't get this set of data right."

Then came Lucas's voice, laced with obvious impatience. "Julia, can you stop using these lame excuses to check up on me? I'm tutoring a student."

"My leg's broken," I said, forcing the words out through the pain.

"You never used to lie," Lucas cut me off, his voice icy. "If you've got so much free time, go disinfect the house. Stop bothering me."

Lucas hung up.

I stared at the darkening screen, and suddenly, the pain inside me faded into numbness.