Before Neal Henson married me, he made me undergo eight gynecological exams.

He said he had a psychological thing about cleanliness, that without that piece of paper he could never get past it in his own mind.

I felt humiliated. But I loved him, so I went anyway.

Then, on our wedding night, Neal shoved me off him.

"You've been touched by other men. I find it dirty."

He said it like he was passing a death sentence.

I tried to explain. It was an injury from a gym class back in high school. He gave a cold little laugh.

"That's what girls who aren't virgins always say."

For the three years after that, he never touched me. Even handing me a glass of water, he'd avoid my fingers.

I kept telling myself that given enough time, he would change.

Until the night I finished working late and went to Neal's office for a signature.

The door was left ajar. Neal was in the president's chair, stripped bare, the girl in his lap pouting that she didn't want to be held.

His voice held a gentleness I'd never heard from him. "Stop being difficult. If you catch a chill, I'll only worry about you."

I stood in the doorway, and the documents slipped from my hands to the floor.

He heard the sound and turned. There wasn't a flicker of panic on his face.

"Wait outside for a bit. I'll get dressed and then we'll talk."

I didn't move.

Neal, you're the one who's dirty.

……

"Stop it, this is all your fault, your wife saw us." The girl's coy little laugh drifted out from inside.

Neal's voice carried no trace of alarm, even a hint of indulgence. "I'll have my assistant drive you home. Bundle up, don't catch cold."

I stood outside the door as a cold draft blew down the corridor, and it chilled me.

The door opened.

Amber Whitman walked out, still draped in Neal's couture suit jacket.

As she passed me, she stopped and lowered her voice.

"Neal says you're just too boring. In bed you're like a dead fish. Only I can make him enjoy it."

She pulled the oversized jacket tighter, and the collar shifted to reveal a stark red mark.

I didn't rise to her taunt.

Neal came out of the office.

He fastened the top button of his shirt without hurry, his expression as calm as ever, as if nothing had happened at all.

Amber straightened his slightly disheveled tie for him, easy and familiar.

He didn't even glance at me. He tilted his head down a little, cooperating with her hands.

"What are you doing here?"

I held out the project approval I'd chased for three months.

His hand reached halfway, then his gaze dropped to my fingertips, and it paused, almost imperceptibly.

Then he took hold of one corner of the envelope, deliberately keeping clear of any contact with my skin.

Three years of marriage, and he still avoided my hand even reaching for a glass of water.

I'd once believed it was a physical barrier he couldn't overcome, his psychological thing about cleanliness acting up.

It turned out I was his psychological barrier.

"Let's go, I'll take you home." He turned and walked toward the elevator.

The air in the car was cloyingly sweet, carrying a faint trace of perfume.

Neal spoke as he drove. "About what happened today, don't say anything to anyone."

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, a warning in his tone.

"Amber's still young. She hasn't been at the company long. She couldn't handle that kind of ugly gossip."

I watched the streetlights sliding backward past the window and spoke very softly.

"And what about me?"

Neal frowned, a thread of impatience creeping into his voice.

"As Mrs. Henson, you should know where the line is."

"I'm just having a bit of fun with her. The lady of the Henson house can only ever be you. What more could you want?"

I turned my head and looked at that cold, refined, aloof face.

Three years ago, after I finished the eighth gynecological exam, I stood in the hospital corridor holding that cold report and cried until I was shaking.

I called him. He said only one thing.

"Send me the report when it's done."

I thought that was the last hurdle before the wedding, that once I'd proven myself, he would finally love me the way I deserved.

Only later did I learn it was just the beginning of three years of humiliation.

"All right. Understood." I pulled my eyes back and turned again to the window.

Neal seemed pleased with how obedient I was.

For once, his tone softened. "Tomorrow's the weekend. I'll take you to buy that necklace you've been wanting."

"No need."

He didn't press. He dropped me at home and hurried off again.

Back inside, I took out my phone and called my assistant.

"Draft the divorce agreement for me tonight."

"And prepare my resignation from Henson Group while you're at it."

Eleven o'clock that night.

The lock on the villa door clicked.

Neal pushed the door open, Amber slumped dead drunk in his arms.

"She's wasted. It isn't safe for a girl to stay at a hotel alone, so I brought her home."

He laid Amber on the sofa, then turned to look at me where I stood at the foot of the stairs, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Go make her a bowl of hangover soup."

"We're out of hangover pills," I said.

His brows knit tighter, edged with reproach.

"Then boil some oatmeal porridge. Her stomach's bad. Isn't this the kind of thing you're best at?"

He shrugged off his coat and draped it over Amber, the movement gentle.

"And hurry. Don't leave her miserable any longer than she has to be."

I turned and walked into the kitchen.

After we married, I'd picked out every curtain by hand, every set of dishes, every scented candle.

I thought if I made this place warm enough, sooner or later Neal would come closer to me.

For three years I ate alone, worked overtime alone at the office, kept watch over this empty house alone.

And now a strange woman had moved in as if she owned the place.

By the time I carried the porridge out, Neal was crouched in front of the sofa, wiping Amber's face with a warm towel.

His touch was light, as if terrified of hurting her.

"Leave it on the table. Go to bed." He didn't so much as turn his head, every ounce of his attention on that girl.

I set the bowl down and went upstairs.

That night, I slept in the wide double bed of the master bedroom.

In the small hours, I woke to a thin thread of sound.

I got up and opened the door.

At the end of the hall, the guest room door stood ajar, dim yellow light spilling through.

"Neal, my head hurts so much."

"Easy now. Drink some water and it'll stop. I told you to go easy, but you wouldn't listen."

His voice was low and tender, carrying a patience and a doting I had never once heard.

I stood there until my legs went numb, then turned and went back to my room.

The next morning.

When I came downstairs, Amber was sitting in the dining room, eating breakfast.

She was wearing my silk pajamas.

The ones I'd bought just last month and hadn't even had a chance to wear.

"Morning, sis." She stirred the porridge in her bowl, smiling like she couldn't hurt a fly.

"My clothes got dirty last night, so Neal found me something of yours. You don't mind, do you?"

I walked over and poured myself a glass of warm water.

"Since you like picking up my castoffs, consider it charity."

Amber's face stiffened for a moment, then the smile came back.

Neal came out of the study, car keys in hand.

He glanced at me.

"Eleanor, go with Amber to the hospital for a checkup later. I have an important meeting this morning. I can't get away."

My fingers tightened slightly around the water glass.

"What checkup?"

Neal was silent for two seconds.

His eyes drifted to Amber's stomach, and something complicated moved through them.

"She might be pregnant."

A downtown private hospital.

The obstetrics hallway reeked of disinfectant.

I knew that smell too well.

Three years ago, Neal had made me come here and go through eight gynecological exams.

Every time I lay on that cold table, the instruments probing into my body, the humiliation of it. I still remembered all of it.

I sat on the bench in the waiting area, watching the electronic call board on the wall.

"Amber Whitman, please come to Exam Room Three."

The nurse's voice echoed down the corridor.

Amber stood and held out her designer bag, the kind that cost well over a hundred grand.

"Sis, hold this for me."

She looked down at me, the corner of her mouth curling into a mocking smile.

"Neal said you know this place best, so I asked him to have you come with me."

I didn't take the bag.

She wasn't bothered. She tossed it onto the chair and leaned in close to my ear.

"You really can't blame Neal, though. In a situation like yours, any man would feel uneasy about it."

"An injury in high school gym class? That excuse wouldn't fool even me, let alone him."

She laughed softly, then turned and walked into the exam room, leaving me alone on the bench.

I folded my hands over my knees, my fingertips ice-cold.

Half an hour later.

Amber walked out holding her report, the satisfaction impossible to hide in her eyes and the set of her brows.

The nurse followed behind her and glanced at me.

"You're family, right? Go pay for the exam at the first-floor window. Is the baby's father not here today?"

Before I could say anything, Amber already had her phone out.

Right in front of me, she called Neal.

And made a point of putting it on speaker.

"Neal, the results are back." Her voice went soft and sweet, laced with a little hurt.

On the other end, Neal's voice was low, but I could hear the tension in it.

"How is it?"

"The doctor said I'm already six weeks along."

Neal's breath caught.

After a long moment, he said quietly, "If it's there, keep it. Don't be scared. I'll take responsibility."

I sat beside her, my heart aching so badly it felt like it was being drilled through.

Three years ago, I'd tried to explain to him how that membrane had torn by accident, and all I got back was his cold scrutiny and endless humiliation.

After our wedding night, Neal never touched me again, and I never got to be a mother.

Yet another woman had gotten it so easily.

Amber hung up and looked at me.

"Sis, did you hear that? Neal said he'll take responsibility."

I stood and picked up my handbag.

"Congratulations."

Today was actually my third wedding anniversary with Neal.

Inside my bag, the gift I hadn't gotten to give him last night was still there.

A pair of limited-edition obsidian cufflinks, ones he'd spent a long time searching for.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Neal.

"Book somewhere light for tonight. Amber can't have anything too rich right now. I'll come straight from my meeting."

I stared at the words on the screen for a long time.

Then I typed one word back.

"Okay."

At seven that evening, I brought the printed divorce papers and pushed open the door to the private room at Skyline Restaurant.

The mood inside was warm and cheerful.

Neal, Amber, and Candice Henson were already seated.

Neal looked up at me, his brow creasing slightly, as if I'd shown up too late.

"Mom's here. Don't ruin things tonight." He dropped his voice in warning, as though I were the outsider spoiling the mood.