Divorcing the Billionaire Who Called Me Dirty

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.