For eight long years of marriage, my husband Jordan—the most powerful man in Rivermouth—remained as cold and restrained with me as ice.

Everyone in our circle envied me, whispering that Jordan loved me to the bone.

To protect my fragile, trauma-scarred body, he would soak in ice water every night, suppressing what he called a “severe sex addiction.”

For eight full years, he never touched me.

I believed it.

Like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood, I held onto this twisted, suffocating love.

Then came the day I performed the ninth hymen reconstruction surgery for a girl named Jennifer. In her anesthesia-drugged murmurs, I heard my husband’s name—clear as day.

“Jordan… gently…”

In that moment, the beautiful dream I’d cherished for eight years shattered with deafening clarity.

…

Blinding and sterile, the shadowless lamp filled the operating theater with white light. Peeling off my blood-stained gloves, I tossed them into the medical waste bin; they landed with a dull thud.

The Head Nurse approached, her voice low. “Dr. Margaret, about this girl Jennifer… it’s the ninth time. She always says it was an accident, but I think—”

I didn’t respond, only staring at the name “Jennifer” on the medical chart, my mind buzzing.

The Head Nurse sighed. “Don’t push yourself too hard. I’m sure Mr. Jordan has something special planned for tonight. After all, it’s your eighth anniversary.”

Yes. Eight years.

Numbly, I removed my white coat and left the operating room.

My phone lit up with a message from Jordan—gentle and considerate, as always.

*“Margaret, I’ve reserved a table at ‘Cloud Nine’ for 7 p.m. James will pick you up. Love you.”*

Love me?

Those three words sent a wave of nausea through me.

Back home, I sat in the vast, empty living room, gazing at the enormous wedding portrait on the wall. In the photo, Jordan looked devastatingly handsome, his eyes adoring. I smiled demurely, a porcelain doll under perfect protection.

Now, that doll was covered in invisible cracks.

Lifting my wrist, I looked at the Patek Philippe watch Jordan had given me. He’d said it was for my safety—equipped with the most advanced tracking system so he could find me instantly if anything happened again. I never realized it had another, unused function: real-time audio monitoring.

Almost against my will, I opened the dedicated app on my phone and connected to the watch.

I took the watch off, placed it inside an exquisite jewelry box, and called Jordan’s driver. “James, could you deliver this box to Mr. Jordan at Cloud Nine? Tell him it’s my anniversary gift.”

After doing this, I felt utterly drained. Collapsing onto the sofa, I put on my headphones.

At exactly 7 p.m., my headphones filled with the muffled sounds of a restaurant—clinking cutlery, distant chatter. Then Jordan’s voice, tinged with impatience.

“What is this?”

James replied respectfully, “Sir, it’s a gift from Mrs. Jordan for your anniversary.”

A brief silence. Then the sound of a box being opened.

A playful male voice cut in. “Oh, Jordan, from your wife? How come your precious treasure isn’t with you tonight?”

It was Jordan’s childhood friend, Timothy.

Jordan snorted. “She’s at home. Can’t stand looking at that dead face of hers.”

My heart clenched violently, breath stolen by the pain.

*Dead face…* So that’s what he thought of me.

Timothy clicked his tongue. “Fair enough. Eight years shackled to a broken vessel you can’t even use… I feel for you. Speaking of which, where’s Jennifer? Isn’t this your little wife’s big night?”

A sweet, girlish voice piped up, laced with feigned hurt. “Timothy, stop teasing me… Jordan, do you think Margaret knows something?”

It was Jennifer.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood—metallic and sharp.

Jordan’s voice came through the earpiece, unnervingly gentle. "What could she possibly know? That orphan would be nothing without me. Dumb as a post. If my bastard rival hadn’t snatched her all those years ago and left her broken, would I have wasted years keeping her? If I hadn’t married her and she’d died, what would everyone think of Jordan?"

"She’s just a pet. Kept at home to keep up appearances. Don’t think about her, sweetheart. Everyone knows I only touch clean girls."

A wave of raucous laughter followed, broken by Jennifer’s coy, playful scolding.

"Jordan, you’re terrible…"

"Terrible? You haven’t seen anything yet…"

What came next was worse. Like a blunt, poisoned knife, it carved slowly through eight years of trust—through everything I’d believed was love.

Curled tight on the sofa, my whole body went cold, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

So it was all a lie. The “addiction.” The “restraint.” The “fear of hurting me.”

He could—he just thought I was tainted.

Those clusters of needle marks on his arm weren’t to suppress desire. They were boosters, for when the fun outside wasn’t enough.

His love? Pity. Charity. A prop for his “devoted husband” act.

And me? The genius doctor, the youngest PhD in the field, locked in a gilded cage like a worthless trinket… For eight years, I’d been his fool.

My phone buzzed. A message from Jordan.

*Margaret, where are you? The food’s getting cold. Are you feeling unwell again? Be good—I’ll wrap things up here and come home to you.*

I stared at the hollow words on the screen and laughed until tears streaked my face.

Slowly, I typed out a reply, one deliberate character at a time.

*Jordan, I want a divorce.*

After I sent the message, Jordan never replied.

I sat alone through the night, until the first hint of dawn crept in and the sound of the keypad unlocking echoed through the villa’s front door.

Jordan was back. He reeked of alcohol and a strange perfume—the exact scent Jennifer had worn the day before. His suit jacket was draped carelessly over his arm, his tie pulled loose and crooked. Handsome as he was, his face carried the weary look of a hangover.

Seeing me on the sofa, he paused, then frowned, his tone thick with displeasure. “Why are you still up? Pouting all night?”

He walked over and stood above me, looking down as if I were a petulant child.

“Divorce? Margaret, do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

He tugged at his tie and scoffed. “Because I missed our anniversary? How old are you, playing these childish games?”

I lifted my head and met his searching gaze calmly. “I’m perfectly clear-headed. Jordan, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the divorce papers. You can choose to walk away with nothing or split the assets fifty-fifty. It’s up to you.”

He looked like he’d just heard the world’s biggest joke. Leaning down, he gripped my chin, his fingers digging in painfully.

“Say that again.”

His eyes turned to ice—a look so cold and sharp it felt physical. “Margaret, have you forgotten who gave you everything? Your job, your reputation, this house you live in—which of them didn’t come from me? Without me, what are you?”

“What am I?”

I looked at him, my gaze utterly dead. “I’m the fool you’ve deceived for eight years. The doll you find disgusting but still use as a prop in your loving-husband act. Jordan, if it makes you sick, it makes me sick too.”

His expression shifted instantly. His grip on my chin tightened sharply. “You heard?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I wrenched my face free, stood up, and faced him.

“Yes. I heard.”

I went on, voice flat. “‘Used up.’ ‘Looks like death warmed over.’ ‘Dumber than a box of rocks.’ I heard it all. Mr. Jordan, your acting is truly masterful. I’m in awe.”

A flicker of panic crossed Jordan’s eyes, quickly replaced by fury.

He probably never expected the wife he saw as weak, obedient, and compliant to speak in such a cold tone.

“You followed me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“The watch you gave me works too well. The GPS never lies.”

I curled my lips into a sarcastic smile. “Mr. Jordan, drop the act. If you’re not tired of it, I am. Nine a.m. tomorrow, at the civil affairs office.”

With that, I turned to go upstairs.

But he grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush the bone.

“I don’t agree!” he growled, eyes bloodshot. “Margaret, you’re not leaving me! You’ll stay by my side for the rest of your life, as Mrs. Jordan!”

I struggled with all my strength but couldn’t break free.

Old trauma triggered an instinctive resistance, a deep fear of male touch. My stomach churned violently, and I couldn’t hold back a dry heave.

Seeing my reaction, the anger in his eyes flared hotter—as if my disgust had wounded his ridiculous pride.

“What are you pretending for?” he sneered. “Playing the innocent with me, but what about with other men? Margaret, can you honestly say you haven’t thought about a man in these eight years? That body of yours—who else would want it besides me?”

His venomous words were like poisoned needles, stabbing straight into my heart.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Jordan let go of me impatiently and went to answer it.

Standing at the door was Jennifer, wearing flawless makeup and a Chanel suit.

She held a box in her hands. Seeing me inside, she feigned surprise, covering her mouth. “Oh, Margaret, I… I didn’t mean to intrude. Jordan left his watch at my place last night. I thought it might be important, so I brought it right over.”

She handed the jewelry box I’d given him to Jordan, but her gaze settled challengingly on me.

I stared coldly at her, and at Jordan, whose expression grew darker as he took the box.

What a perfectly staged scene.

“Miss Jennifer,” I said, my voice quiet but clear enough to carry across the living room. “As a doctor, let me offer some friendly advice. The hymen is fragile tissue. Repeated repairs don’t just risk infection—they can cause necrosis. You’ve had two this month. Keep it up, and not even a miracle will fix it.”

Jennifer’s face went pale in an instant.

Jordan whipped his head around, eyes shooting daggers at me. “Margaret, shut up!”

“Why would I?”

I met his gaze and walked step by step toward Jennifer, looking into her panicked eyes. “Mr. Jordan, aren’t ‘clean’ girls your favorite? I’m just helping you verify how ‘clean’ your new fling really is. Nine procedures, Miss Jennifer. Your dedication is impressive.”

“You… you’re lying!” Jennifer trembled with rage, tears springing to her eyes on cue as she hid pitifully behind Jordan. “Jordan, I haven’t! She’s slandering me!”

Jordan shielded her behind him, looking at me with disgust. “Enough! Margaret, what’s happened to you? So bitter and sharp-tongued, like some shrew!”

I laughed, so hard tears nearly spilled.

“What I’ve become—isn’t it all thanks to you?”

I pointed toward the door. “Take your ‘clean’ girl and get out of my house.”

“Your house?” Jordan laughed in furious disbelief. “My name is on the deed! You’re the one who should leave!”

“Fine.”

I nodded and turned to walk out.

I took nothing with me—not even bothering to change out of my slippers.

As I reached the doorway, Jordan grabbed me again. His voice held a trace of suppressed panic. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t look back, answering coldly, “Somewhere you aren’t. To breathe fresh air.”