Chapter 1

My wife is very disciplined.

She wakes up on time every day, eats on time, and goes to bed on time.

She even demands that the number of times we have sex each month must be exact—no deviations allowed.

When I'm exhausted and refuse her, she says with disgust:

"If you can't do it, there's always a man who can!"

Later, she found a fitness trainer and spread the word all over the community that being as disciplined as her leads to good health—unlike me, who can't even meet the quota for sex.

But when I held daughter Mary and let her be as "disciplined" as she wanted, she cried and said family was more important.

I got home from overtime close to one in the morning.

Someone in the elevator had brought back barbecue. It smelled amazing.

When the guy noticed me looking, he winked at me and handed me the biggest oyster.

Before I could react, he patted my shoulder with a grave expression. "Brother, you're still young. Don't lose heart!"

When I pushed open the door, the chattering voices stopped instantly. Georgina had been right in the middle of her speech.

"If you don't exercise with discipline, you'll end up like my husband sooner or later—not even enough energy for sex!"

Like always, I changed my shoes and went into my room.

I didn't say a word the whole time, didn't look at anyone. I just closed the door a little louder than usual.

It took a while before voices resumed outside.

Someone muttered, "Georgina, are we being a bit too much?"

Someone complained, "But Lucas can't even do it anymore. Are we not allowed to say anything...?"

They knew I was angry and were giving Georgina attitude.

Georgina knew too, but her voice carried impatience:

"Don't worry about him! Am I wrong? He hasn't slept with me in days! If it weren't for Mary, who'd want to be with him?"

She was giving me the cold shoulder too and slammed the master bedroom door.

But at midnight, she knocked on my door with an annoyed expression.

"I can't be bothered to argue with you. Help me apply the moisturizing cream!"

I suppressed my anger and applied the ointment to her body.

But my movements quickly froze.

On her waist were several dark purple finger marks!

But I hadn't been intimate with her in days!

I couldn't help but apply more pressure. She let out a dissatisfied grunt.

"Lucas, has overtime fried your brain? Even my trainer gives better massages than you!"

"What about those marks on your waist?" I asked softly, not stopping my hands.

"Is that what you think of me? Don't project your own inadequacy onto me by accusing me of cheating!"

She suddenly raised her voice, her shrill accusations pounding into my heart.

I looked into her eyes, swallowed my words back down, but couldn't hide the disappointment in my eyes.

She turned around, saw the heavy dark circles under my eyes, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Sorry. Even though you always make me angry and maliciously suspect me, I shouldn't have yelled at you."

She handed me the remaining soup from the table.

I never eat in the middle of the night—afraid of insomnia, worried it'll affect work the next day.

But since she offered it, I accepted.

There were dark fingerprints on the rim of the bowl—long ones. A man's.

I felt something stuck in my throat, unable to go up or down.

When I'm home, I rush to do all the housework.

When I'm not, I call a housekeeper to cook.

Funny thing is, this was the first time I'd tasted her soup. It was actually pretty good.

I suddenly didn't want to throw it away and drank it all in one go.

"Remember to wash the dishes before you sleep~"

Her voice turned coquettish again as she settled contentedly into the bed I'd warmed up.

I silently cleaned up the dishes and lit up my phone screen.

The page was still on a post from a disciplined lifestyle blogger thanking her trainer.

"The hands that cooked have a little heart-shaped birthmark on the palm—hands I've kissed countless times."