Chapter 1

Three years of marriage, yet zero intimacy.

I went to see a therapist about it.

He told me I was completely normal and suggested I try someone else.

When I got home, my housekeeper of five years had been fired out of the blue.

Before leaving, she whispered, "Ma'am, you should take a look at your husband's study."

*****

Ryan Cooper and I had known each other since we were in diapers.

Our families were super close, and his parents worked at my dad's company.

A few years after we graduated from college, he suddenly made a grand, high-profile proposal to me.

When he proposed, I told him, "I think I'm naturally frigid. Are you sure you want to marry me?"

He replied, "I love you for who you are, not your body."

I believed him, feeling like the luckiest woman in the world.

The day the housekeeper was fired, I drove her to the train station myself.

"Ma'am, you should take a look at your husband's study." That was all she said before carrying her luggage into the station, leaving without another word.

I didn't think much of it at the time.

But lately, Ryan had been coming home late all the time, sometimes staying out all night.

Once the seed of doubt was planted, it only grew stronger.

A slamming door woke me up at three in the morning. I stepped out of the bedroom in my pajamas. It was Ryan.

I reached out and took his briefcase for him.

"Busy with the quarterly reports," he said, brushing me off with a quick excuse.

There was still a hint of tenderness in his eyes, but I could tell he wasn't the same anymore.

Two years ago, we were inseparable, but now it felt like there was a huge gap between us.

Early in our marriage, Ryan did try to touch me. But when his hand met my skin, I would get sick to my stomach and sometimes vomit.

He'd hug me, his heart aching for me. As a result, he stopped touching me again.

I thought he didn't care anymore, but instead, he went and told all our friends and family about what happened.

The day my parents called me home, I realized that my privacy had already been exposed for everyone to see.

My parents once adored me, but everything changed after that.

They put all their attention on Ryan, took me out of my position at the company, and handed my job over to him.

Believing I was sick, they locked me up at home, paraded therapists in and out from all over the country, and even tried to make me sleep with Ryan.

It only stopped when I threw up on the spot and nearly fainted.

After that, they stopped forcing me, but they kept monitoring me. They made me go for weekly check-ups, take my medication, see a therapist, and even ended up calling in a fortune-teller.

When I was locked in my room, therapists came and went. I lost count of how many there were.

Only Ryan would open that door, come in, sit by my bed, and hold me, whispering words of comfort.

He'd say, "I'm here. Don't be scared," and then gently kiss my cheek.

Seeing how exhausted he looked, I tried to rekindle the spark between us.

I reached over and started unbuttoning his shirt. He flinched slightly when my fingers grazed his collarbone.

"I saw a therapist today. He said there's nothing wrong with me," I told him.

I didn't stop, my hands moving down to his belt.

But as soon as my hand went in, Ryan caught my wrist. "Maybe another time. I'm really tired."

He turned his back to me, shrugged off his jacket, and walked into the bathroom.

As the shower started running, I bent down to pick up the suit jacket that he'd tossed over the chair. And then, a wave of cloyingly sweet perfume hit me.

It was another woman's perfume, a scent completely unfamiliar to me.

I stood there, gripping the jacket for what felt like ages, and suddenly, that look the housekeeper gave me before she left flashed through my mind.

She was at the train station entrance, turned back, and glanced at me. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but she ultimately said nothing.

I finally understood. Her words echoed in my mind. "Ma'am, you should take a look at your husband's study."

I set the jacket down and headed for the study.

I turned the knob, but it was locked.

I went back to the bedroom, grabbed a bunch of keys, and tried them one by one. None of them fit.

He'd changed the lock.

I crouched outside the study door, my back pressed against the freezing wall. I gripped the chain of keys so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

Back when we were decorating the house, Ryan specifically chose the room at the far end of the second floor for his study, saying it was quiet and perfect for work.

I teased him, "It's just the two of us. Isn't every room quiet?" He ruffled my hair and said, "When we have kids, it'll get noisy."

Ironically, not only did we never have children, but we also never slept together.

My mind was a complete blur, consumed by thoughts of that locked door and the suit smelling of perfume.

I didn't bother trying to unlock it anymore.

I headed back to the bedroom, crawled into bed, and we spent the rest of the night in silence.