My wife, Lindsey Kelsey, suffers from an aversion to intimacy. For ten years of marriage, she pushed me away again and again.

Then, on our anniversary, she abandoned me and, in front of the crowd, kissed another man with reckless passion before the two of them walked hand in hand into a luxury hotel.

Afterward, Lindsey brazenly declared that a real man should be magnanimous, not petty.

Magnanimous?

Then I wish them both eternal bliss—may they be bound so tightly they can never break free from one another.

Later, I handed Lindsey the divorce papers with a blank expression. I was determined to walk away from her.

But Lindsey went mad when she realized she couldn't find me anymore.

"I have a fear of physical intimacy. Don't force me."

Lindsey Kelsey pushed away the hand I had reached out to hold, then turned her back on me without another word.

Yes, we've been married for ten years—yet not once have we shared a night as husband and wife.

I've always loved children. Both of our families have urged us time and again to start one. But whenever I tried to get closer, Lindsey would panic and stop me, claiming her phobia of intimacy.

Helpless, I shielded her by telling relatives that my work at the hospital left me too exhausted.

I loved Lindsey. I thought she must have her own secret pain, so I never forced her. Instead, I retreated to the bathroom to deal with my needs in silence.

Perhaps she sensed how much her rejection hurt me. That night, when I returned, she wrapped her arms around my waist and nuzzled against me.

"Darling, let's just sleep." Her soft breath brushed my chest, yet a wave of unease stirred deep inside me.

The next day, determined to chase away my doubts, I rushed through my hospital work, left early, and booked a French restaurant. I wanted to surprise Lindsey, to rekindle our bond.

But two hours later, she still hadn't shown up. When I called one of her company's staff, I learned the truth.

"There's a company gathering tonight. Ms. Kelsey scheduled it a week ago."

A week ago—and she hadn't told me. Back when we first married, she shared everything with me, no matter how trivial.

Staring at her unread messages on WhatsApp, I finally drove to the clubhouse where her company was having its gathering.

The moment I looked through the doorway, my hand froze on the knob. My body turned to ice.

Lindsey was in another man's arms. She didn't struggle, didn't resist. Instead, with a look of pure enjoyment, she kissed him deeply while the others cheered.

Later, after the gathering ended, I overheard her talking with her close friend, Destiny Carmine.

"Before marriage, I really did love George. Even a morning apart felt unbearable. But every time he tried to sleep with me after we wed, I swear I could smell blood on him. It made me… nauseous. So I lied, told him I had a phobia of intimacy. I didn't expect that fool to believe me. Ten years of marriage, and we've never once had sex."

"So honestly, you just don't love him anymore?" Destiny saw through her immediately.

Lindsey only smiled faintly, neither confirming nor denying.

"And this intern today… Ian Dempsey, wasn't it? Have you actually fallen for him?"

Lindsey replied with careless indifference. "Almost, but not really."

"I'm warning you," Destiny said seriously. "Play around if you must, but don't go too far. Back in university, you and George were the legendary golden couple. He treated you so preciously. Everyone knew how fiercely he loved you. If you lose control and cross that line, no one will be able to help you."

Lindsey let out a mocking laugh. "Thirteen years together. You think he'd really have the heart to let me go?"

Lindsey's words pierced me like needles of silver. I was so shocked and hurt I could barely stand.

Looking back over the years, I finally understood—there was never any phobia. She simply didn't love me enough.

I couldn't believe it. She said I made her feel nauseous.

She knew me too well. She knew where I was soft, where I was weak. And she used that weakness as the leverage for her betrayal.

I remembered Ian clearly. He was the new intern her company hired earlier this year.

The first time Lindsey mentioned him, she couldn't stop praising him.

She said Ian had ruined a major deal. But instead of backing down, that fresh intern chased after the departing clients, begging through tears for another chance, almost fainting from the effort.

That stubborn persistence, she claimed, was something few young people possessed anymore.

In the end, Lindsey herself had stepped in, furious at the clients, and dragged Ian out of the meeting.

When I heard the story, I couldn't help saying, "Isn't that just being unreasonable? He messed up the deal. The responsibility is his alone. The clients have every right to walk away. You can't force them just because Ian looked pitiful."

For the first time, Lindsey snapped at me, "And you call yourself a doctor? You've got no empathy at all. All your years practicing medicine—completely wasted."

But I didn't doubt my reasoning. I tried to point it out again.

She, however, insisted Ian had done nothing wrong. Worse, she claimed it was her fault for sheltering me too much.

Later, she gave me the silent treatment.

In the end, I swallowed my pride and coaxed her back into good spirits.

Since then, I had never forgotten Ian's name.

I never imagined that one day he would become her personal assistant.

And from that moment on, something invisible lodged itself between me and Lindsey.

When you truly love someone, you can't help but share every detail of your life with them. The day you stop sharing, it means love is gone.

All the signs were already there, rising to the surface.

…

After work, I went to bed early. Not long after, I felt movement at my side.

Her body pressed close, soft and warm, arms locking tightly around me.

The urge to vomit burned in my throat, but I forced it down and rolled away swiftly.

"It's too hot," I said coldly.

Her hand froze midair.

I could feel she was in a good mood tonight. For her to initiate a hug—this was the most intimate gesture she'd shown me in years.

But she didn't press further. Instead, she tucked the blanket neatly around me, then turned and reached for her phone.

When had it begun? At some point, Lindsey, who never stayed up late, started scrolling her phone past midnight, even carrying it with her to the bathroom.

Half-drowsy, I suddenly received a text. A strange weight in my chest told me instantly: it was from Ian.

I drew a deep breath and opened it.

It was a screenshot of his chat with Lindsey, timestamped just five minutes ago.

He had sent her a photo of himself in a bathrobe, along with a hotel room number.

His message read: [I don't dare hope you'll ever divorce for me. I just want to stay by your side, to hold you when you're sad. If you don't come tonight, I'll wait here as long as it takes.]

And Lindsey, soft-hearted as always, had typed three words: [Wait for me.]

For the first time, I witnessed the full force of a manipulative man who knew how to play weak.

And it left me utterly stunned.

The moment she finished reading the messages, Lindsey rose from bed and slipped on her clothes.

"Honey, there's a sudden issue with the project. I need to see to it."

For ten years, she had often used this excuse to leave home in the middle of the night. Because I loved her, I never questioned it, never tried to stop her.

Now, looking back, I realized—those nights must have been for Ian.

"I'll go with you," I said.

She froze, almost imperceptibly, then gently brushed her fingers across my cheek, smiling softly. "It's so late. Don't wear yourself out. I'd feel terrible if you fell sick. Don't worry, I'll be back soon."

Without a shred of hesitation, she slammed the door behind her.

I hailed a cab and followed.

Lindsey drove recklessly, and several times, the driver nearly lost sight of her car. Outside, rain poured in torrents, and through the sheets of water I saw Ian waiting.

The instant they met, they clung to each other like lovers long separated, unable to resist the pull.

I held back the tears threatening to spill and lifted my phone. With steady hands, I pressed the shutter.

For good measure, I even recorded a twenty-second video.

In it, they kissed feverishly, unwilling to part, before finally walking hand in hand into the hotel.

Back in the car, I forced myself to be calm and dialed a number engraved into memory.

On the other end, my former doctoral advisor, Professor Ryder, answered. He was abroad now, just starting his morning.

"Professor, do you still need members for your medical research project?"

For a moment, his voice trembled. "George, you've finally decided to join me? If you're willing to come, there will always be a place for you."

After my PhD, Professor Ryder had tried hard to persuade me to join him overseas, to continue research and advance further. It was a golden opportunity, a chance to climb higher.

But Lindsey hadn't wanted a long-distance marriage. For her sake, I refused.

Deep down, though, I regretted it more than anyone could know.

Now, at last, I could begin again.

But I didn't regret my choice back then. The George of yesterday had been willing to sacrifice dreams for love. The George of today had the courage to start over.

Both decisions were mine—both true to my heart.

…

A day later, I set a meeting with Professor Ryder for one month from now.

Dragging my weary body home, I pulled out a bottle of treasured liquor and drank recklessly, glass after glass.

One more month, then everything would finally be over.

My friend, Jeremy Gordon, sent two voice messages:

Jeremy: [How did it go? That French place I recommended was good, wasn't it?]

Jeremy: [No woman could resist something like that! Lindsey must be head over heels for you.]

To everyone around us, Lindsey's love for me seemed boundless. I had once believed it myself.

Only now did I realize—love can be faked.

I glanced down at the watch on my wrist and let out a bitter laugh.

It had been Lindsey's gift to me during the hardest two years of our lives.

Back then, she was just starting her business. I poured every bit of my savings into her venture. Times were brutal—we went hungry more often than not.

To buy me that watch, she secretly worked a part-time job.

One day, she collapsed from exhaustion, and only in the hospital did I learn she had been sleeping less than four hours a night.

When I arrived, she quickly hid her scraped palms from me.

I blamed myself for not protecting her, tears streaming as I asked why she pushed herself so hard.

She wiped my tears and laughed softly. "Idiot. Of course, it was for your birthday gift. Don't get too moved, though. This comes with conditions. You'll have to marry me."

Later, her business flourished. We moved into a bigger house.

Yet, I never took off this modest watch.

She once offered to replace it with a Rolex, but I refused without hesitation. To me, this watch was irreplaceable.

I remembered her face glowing with love as she celebrated my birthday. Now, I removed the watch and placed it on the nightstand.

Her words of the past still echoed in my ears.

But my wife was no longer the same.

And I no longer wished to keep this watch.