Counting Three Hundred Without You

My husband was engineered by generational wealth and elite boarding schools to eliminate friction. He treated human emotion like overhead—an operational loss to be audited, streamlined, and quietly erased.

When an ulcer tore through my stomach lining and kept me in the hospital for a week, he never stepped foot in my room. He simply wired funds to a private concierge agency and had them dispatch around-the-clock nurses.

Even our sex was choreographed with a stopwatch. Exactly three hundred strokes, measured and mechanical, before he would pull away, wash his hands, and return to his…