Chapter 1

My husband, a man who’d always avoided physical intimacy with me, displayed a photograph at his hundredth photography exhibition. It was an art photo of him embracing another woman.

Both were completely nude, intertwined in the frame without a shred of modesty.

There was even a matching tattoo on her inner thigh, identical to his.

Before the guests, he spoke eloquently:

"This is my first attempt at bold, avant-garde art, and I especially want to thank Jessica for making such a huge sacrifice for my exhibition."

"I hope we'll have more opportunities to collaborate in the future."

Instead of the usual screaming match, I remained calm.

I silently canceled our anniversary dinner reservation.

Four years of neglect. I didn't want to cling to this anymore.

Soon, my phone buzzed with a cancellation confirmation.

I took one last look at the stage.

John still held hands with Jessica, laughing and chatting with the guests.

He had severe OCD; he couldn't stand physical contact with anyone.

Not even his wife.

Kissing, hugging – the most ordinary things.

They were utterly unattainable for me.

Yet, for a woman he’d known less than three months, he broke his own rules.

The centerpiece of this hundredth exhibition, originally, was to be a close-up photo of John and me holding hands.

From our courtship to our marriage.

It was the first time he’d agreed to remove his gloves and have real physical contact with me.

With anticipation, the staff removed the dust cover from the frame.

But what was revealed was a highly explicit photograph.

John and Jessica, naked, their bodies pressed tightly together.

Their bodies barely concealed their private parts.

A nearly transparent plastic film covered them both.

The image was electrifying, yet aesthetically pleasing.

In my shock, I noticed a prominent tattoo on Jessica’s inner thigh.

It was identical to the one on John’s abdomen.

During his speech, he falsely claimed the photograph was a bold artistic challenge and a form of self-healing for his obsessive-compulsive disorder.

John shed tears during his speech.

He thanked Jessica for guiding and helping him over the past few months, allowing him to overcome his anxieties and fears.

I couldn't accept such a ridiculous excuse.

To support John, I quit my high-paying job.

I became a stay-at-home wife.

I cleaned the sheets, curtains, and clothes daily.

Even the tableware was labeled to avoid confusion.

After more than four years of accommodating him, I was exhausted.

John didn’t return home until after 3 AM.

He wore a smug smile, completely oblivious to the missing button on his collar.

Seeing me still on the couch, he approached slowly and reached for my neck:

"Sorry, I didn't discuss changing the artwork beforehand, but the original piece lacked visual impact and affected the overall presentation."

"Next time, I'll re-display our photo when there's a more suitable theme. Does that work?"

I glanced up; he still wore his gloves.

Maintaining a distance.

"Sarah, today's our fourth wedding anniversary. Why don't you take a shower first, and then…"

His words made me chuckle.

Over the years,

spontaneous kisses, hugs, and other normal things.

John never initiated them.

If they happened, it was compensation for a mistake.

Or perhaps, an act of charity.