His Misunderstanding of Love

On our wedding night, Yale Luke carried a quilt as he walked toward the guest room. When he turned to look at me, there was not a trace of newlywed warmth in his eyes—only a cold distance: "I have misogyny, I can't share a room with you." I clutched the freshly changed silk pajamas, the warmth at my fingertips slowly fading. At that moment, I did not realize that those words would mark the beginning of three years of torment. In the days that followed, I tried to draw closer to him. During breakfast, when I tried to hand him the milk, he would instinctively slide the cup away; While watching TV, when I reached for his shoulder, he would excuse himself, saying, 'I still have files to deal with,' and retreat to the study. I tried ninety-nine times in all, each time met with a different excuse, pushing me away. The hundredth time, I wore the lace lingerie he once praised in college, layered under a long trench coat, and went to his company. The taxi stopped below the Luke Group building. I tilted my head back to look up at the towering structure he had built with his own hands, still harboring a last shred of hope—that perhaps, in a place so familiar to him, he might finally let down his guard. The elevator rose to the eighteenth floor, and as the doors opened, I immediately heard a familiar female voice. It was Yolanda Scott, my stepsister and his executive secretary. Her voice carried a coquettish playfulness, a softness I had never heard before: "Yale, you told Yolanda you had misogyny before—so that was a lie, wasn't it?" Then came Yale Luke's voice, gentle enough to drip with warmth, a stark contrast to the coldness he always showed me: "The one I've always loved is you. How could I ever touch her?" "Misogyny is just an excuse; I simply don't want her clinging to me." I stood outside the office door, the thermos in my hand suddenly feeling unbearably heavy—inside was the chicken soup I had simmered since five in the morning, hoping to help him regain his strength. Cold wind seeped through the cracks of the corridor windows; I tightened my coat but still shivered, as if shards of ice had pierced my heart. Yale Luke's secretary passed by, eyes wide with surprise when he saw me; he seemed about to speak but swallowed the words, lowering his head and quickening his pace away. Only now do I realize that everyone in the company probably knows about their affair, except me—I'm the only one kept in the dark. The office door suddenly swung open, and Yale Luke and Yolanda Scott stepped out. Seeing me, Yale's first reaction was to shield Yolanda behind him, his brows knitting so tightly it seemed he could crush a fly. "What are you doing here?" I lifted the thermos, my fingertips whitening from the tight grip, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I know you've been busy at work, so I brought you some chicken soup." "I just heard you and Yolanda talking about work, so I didn't want to interrupt." He glanced at the thermos without even reaching for it. "I don't like drinking this; you can take it back." The impatience in his tone was like a bucket of cold water, draining all warmth from me. Yolanda peeked out from behind him, a triumphant smile on her face. "Sister, I'm Yale's secretary. It's perfectly normal for me to work closely with him." "You're a housewife who keeps coming to the company. People will gossip, and it won't be good for Yale." I looked at Yale, clinging to a final shred of hope. "Do you really think my coming here affects you?"