Chapter 1

Ever since our wedding night, my husband Jared had called me frigid.

While other newlyweds couldn't keep their hands off each other, I froze up every time he touched me.

I had to force myself through it, swallowing my own discomfort.

Whenever Jared wanted it, he would glare at me and throw a fit.

"You’re like a corpse in bed. You feel absolutely nothing!"

"It’s because you’re too repressed. You’re mentally sick!"

I ended up putting my career on hold, secretly going to see a therapist.

Right before we were scheduled to start IVF, I went to the OBGYN for a checkup because of persistent abdominal pain. After reviewing my hormone panel, the doctor looked at me and said:

"Your levels are perfectly normal. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you."

I headed home with the medical report, excited to tell Jared the good news.

But when I pushed the front door open, I saw a pair of red high heels sitting in the entryway.

The bedroom door was slightly open, and the sound of laughter drifted out.

Peeking through the crack, I saw Jared holding another woman in his arms, kissing her forehead.

The tenderness on his face was lightyears away from the cold, sneering mask he always wore around me.

I backed away into the living room, folded the hormone report, and slipped it into my bag.

Then I opened my laptop and printed a divorce agreement.

When Jared finally came out after sending the woman away, he saw the papers on the table. He froze for a second, then scoffed.

"Fine. Let's do it. I’ve been sick of you anyway."

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.

I only said one word:

"Sign."

Jared picked up the pen, but his hand stopped when he reached the asset division section.

He looked up at me, his eyes freezing cold.

"Are you dreaming, Clara? I bought this house before we got married. What makes you think you get half of the equity?"

I stood in the middle of the living room, my fingers tight around the hormone report in my bag.

The sharp corners of the paper dug into my palm.

Jared leaned back on the couch, crossing his legs.

"I paid for all the household expenses. You're just a housewife. What right do you have to split my property?"

I touched the folded divorce agreement inside my bag.

"We paid the mortgage with marital funds after we got married. The paid-off portion and the appreciation are marital property."

Jared stood up, glaring.

"Who taught you that, Clara?"

He scanned me up and down, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

"What have you been doing behind my back lately?"

"Sign it."

I kept my voice flat.

He slammed the pen onto the glass table. It made a sharp, echoing crack.

"Fine. If you want to play accountant, let’s do some math."

He crossed his arms.

"You haven’t made a single dime in the last three years. I supported you. I paid for your food, your clothes. And now you want to split my assets?"

I almost wanted to laugh.

Three years.

For three years, I got up at six every morning to make him breakfast. I stayed up until midnight waiting for him to come home.

I never let his dirty laundry sit overnight.

His stomach was terrible, so I spent two years cooking strict organic meals and remedies to nurse him back to health.

Every time he went on a business trip, I packed and folded every single item in his suitcase.

So, in his eyes, all of that was worth absolutely nothing.

"I didn't earn a salary, but I ran this household and took care of you," I said, speaking slowly and clearly. "If we had hired a full-time housekeeper, it would have cost at least three thousand dollars a month."

"You think your little chores are worth three grand?" He sneered. "A cleaning lady could do everything you did in two hours."

"Jared, I’m not going to argue with you."

I took a deep breath and pushed the agreement back toward him.

"Either sign it, or I'll see you in court."

"Court?"

He laughed as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world.

"Do you have any idea how long a divorce lawsuit takes? The judge might not even grant it the first time. Can you afford to waste that kind of time?"

He grabbed his jacket, threw it over his arm, and walked to the door to put on his shoes.

"If you want to drag this out, be my guest."

He slammed the door behind him.

The apartment fell dead silent.

I stood there, looking around the living room.

I had decorated every corner of this place.

We bought the couch right after our honeymoon. I had suggested a cheap fabric one, but he insisted on expensive leather.

The flowers I bought last month were still sitting on the coffee table, dry and dead. Dried petals had fallen onto the glass, and no one had cleaned them up.

Our wedding photo was still hanging on the wall.

In the photo, I was smiling so happily in my white dress, holding his arm.

Back then, I really thought he was my forever.

We were set up by my mom. She said he had a great job, was handsome, and stable.

After three dates, he confessed his love with a bouquet of red roses.

I was twenty-seven. All my friends were getting married.

My family was pressuring me, and I was panicking too.

The first month of marriage was actually sweet.

He took me to Hawaii for our honeymoon, took photos of me on the beach, and held my hand during sunset walks.

But six months into the marriage, he used the word "frigid" on me for the first time.