Six Years of Sexless Marriage, My Devout Husband's Hidden Family

In the most innocent years of my youth, I gave up passion for the illusion of love, entering a sexless marriage just to become Mrs. Francis Weston, the man I had adored in silence for ten long, aching years.

He wore his faith like armor, untouchable and unreachable.

Loving him felt like chasing smoke—beautiful, yes, but impossible to hold.

Before we even exchanged vows, he laid out his terms.

“No children,” he said, voice flat and unyielding. “And I won’t touch you.”

That was it.

No tenderness. No explanations. No room for questions.

So I turned to the only thing I still believed could make us a family.

I went to an adoption agency.

That’s how I met my son.

Percy. My little angel.

The gentlest soul I’ve ever known. I named him Percy and built my world around him, poured everything into loving him the way I never got to love Francis.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

When Percy was five, he went to Silverstone City to see a magic show. He was so excited that his little face lit up like it held the sun.

And then... he was gone.

Just like that.

I searched everywhere. Street corners, police stations, hospitals, shelters. Days bled into nights and back again. I didn’t sleep.

And then, the gut punch hit me.

Francis.

There he was, my cold, distant husband, standing with a pregnant woman cradled in his arms. They looked like a perfect family, with two children clinging to their sides.

And that woman? None other than his so-called adopted sister, Natasha.

For a moment, I thought I had to be hallucinating.

Had I really just seen that?

But then Natasha smiled, reached up, and rested her hand on his chest, confirming the truth I wasn’t ready to face.

"That kid may not be yours by blood,” she said, “but he was your wife’s whole world. You let him starve. And in the end, you left him to be torn apart by vultures for a ritual sacrifice? Was it worth it?

Oddly, Francis looked at her with a tenderness that was almost sickening, and sneered.

"The sacrifice was fake, Natasha. That boy isn't mine, and Kierra raised that kid as her own. Only when he’s dead will Kierra accept our two kids."

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my world shattering around me in slow motion. For so long, I had believed Francis was a good man. He wore morals like a second skin—ethics, discipline, devotion.

'A spiritual man,' I told myself.

The kind of man you could trust, depend on, and build a life with.

But I was wrong.

He wasn’t a man of substance—he was a man of performance. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, shrouded in borrowed integrity and borrowed righteousness.

Six years of marriage—six years of sacrifices, of silence, of pretending, of hoping.

And in the end, it was all a joke. Cruel, hollow, and fake.

——

Kierra's POV

I watched as Francis, usually so indifferent, dropped his mask.

He crouched down, pulling Natasha’s kids into his arms as if they were his flesh and blood.

“Natasha,” he murmured, his voice oddly soft. “Raising the three of you here in Silverstone is just a temporary cover. Once you've got your new identity, I’ll bring you back home. After all, Ella and Noah can’t stay here hiding forever.”

Natasha smiled, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Francis, I knew you were the best! You built Silverstone to keep me safe, right? I’ll be patient. I know you’ll take care of Kierra soon. Will you stay here tonight? It’s been forever since we had some time together…”

Her hand slid casually over him, her touch lingering, but Francis stiffened, his breath quickening.

“Natasha, you’re pregnant,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “It’s not the right time."

Natasha quickly reasoned, "The doctor said it’s safe now. We can…"

Then, she saw Francis's hesitation.

Right then, Natasha stomped her foot in frustration. "If you won't touch me, is it because you've fallen for Kierra? Stop playing games."

His gaze remained tender, but his following words hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water.

"Back then, everyone said you were the one who seduced me. If I didn’t need to shift the public’s view, why else would I have married her? I never touched her in six years, and I’m sure as hell not starting now."

Then he kissed Natasha, a kiss that seemed to burn with a need I had never felt from him, as if she were the only person who mattered.

“My body belongs only to you, baby,” he whispered.

Even after their figures disappeared into the distance, I stood frozen in shock.

My heart felt like it had splintered into a thousand pieces, each one stabbing deeper as the truth sank in.

My legs refused to move. My hands were cold and trembling.

I wanted to scream, to shout, to make sense of what I'd just seen, but no sound came.

I had loved Francis in secret for ten years.

Ten years of longing. Ten years of sacrifice.

I gave up everything just for the chance to stand beside him.

But every time, he turned me away with that same distant indifference.

Everyone knew Francis for his unwavering faith, leading a life of simple devotion, prayer, and ritual, marked by abstinence and a complete avoidance of women.

But I believed, stupidly, that I could warm a man who had built his entire life around ice. I thought love could be enough.

Then came Natasha. She got into trouble.

The Westons were obsessed with appearances, grooming their sons to be noble, dignified, and restrained, and their daughters molded to be graceful, modest, and untouched.

But Natasha shattered all of that.

A scandal broke out: a livestream—raw, explicit, impossible to deny.

She brought a man home.

Into her room. Into her bed. Before marriage.

It was all caught on camera. The backlash was immediate and merciless.

To save the family's reputation, the Westons disowned her on the spot. Right then, Natasha was cast out in disgrace, stripped of her name, nearly left on the streets.