She frowned, clearly irritated. "You've got the wrong people. We were asleep long before then. My husband and I weren't dragging chairs around in the middle of the night. What do you take us for, kids?"
"There's only one unit on each floor. If the noise didn't come from your apartment, what else could it have been—a ghost?" The old woman glared at Hope and stormed off.
Since she was an old lady, Hope decided it wasn't worth arguing with her.
That evening, over a candlelit dinner, she brought it up with a gentle laugh. "The woman downstairs came up this morning, Caleb. She was convinced we were dragging heavy furniture around past midnight."
Caleb paused for a fraction of a second, his knife slicing smoothly through his steak. He looked up, his smile warm and unbothered. "Is that so? She seems like a lonely old woman, darling. It’s sad, really. I’ll have our assistant order some extra thick acoustic rugs tomorrow so we don't disturb her, alright?"
Hope’s chest swelled with admiration. He was always so considerate, so patient. How could she ever doubt his gentle nature?
After dinner, she washed up, sprayed her favorite perfume, and stepped into the bedroom wearing a delicate silk nightgown. Caleb was sitting on the edge of the bed, reviewing a file. On the nightstand beside him stood two glasses filled with his special cocktail mix.
"Darling, try my special blend tonight," Caleb said softly, handing a glass toward her with that signature gentle smile.
Hope hesitated, looking at the pale pink liquid. A wave of embarrassment swept over her as she remembered how she had passed out on their wedding night.
"Caleb, I don't want to drink tonight," she murmured, gently setting the glass back on the nightstand.
With the scent of fresh vanilla on her skin, she built up the courage to bridge the distance between them. She wanted to experience their intimacy while fully conscious. She sat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, resting her lips against his jaw. "I want to be awake with you..."
Caleb’s reaction was instant. His whole body locked up like iron.
Before she could process it, his hands were on her waist—not pulling her closer, but firmly, indisputably putting distance between them. He pushed her off his lap.
"Hope," he said, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth. " I'm not used to you being this... forward."
The words felt like a slap. Hope swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing a small, tight nod as he kissed her forehead—a patronizing gesture, like an adult soothing an overly eager child—before turning his back to her.
She lay in the dark for hours, staring at his silent silhouette. Was it her? Was she not attractive enough? Was he just under too much pressure from the company?
Determined to fix whatever was wrong, Hope spent the next afternoon making sure everything was perfect. She prepared an elaborate, rich dinner, and coaxed him into relaxing.
It seemed to work. By the time she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a damp towel, Caleb’s gaze lingered on her. His breathing turned raspy, his ice-blue eyes darkening with unmistakable desire.
He wanted her. She could see it.
Feeling a surge of hope, she leaned into his chest, offering herself to him in the light. "Caleb..."
Then came the ice.
Caleb froze. The heat in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid hesitation. He pulled away so fast it left her cold.
"I have urgent files to review in the study," he muttered, not even looking at her as he rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Hope was left standing alone in the quiet master suite, wrapped in a cold towel, her face burning with utter humiliation.
The next morning, while Caleb was out for an early board meeting, Hope walked into his home office to tidy up. That was when she saw it.
The chrome trash can beside his immaculate desk was overflowing with a mound of crumpled, white tissues.
She stared at it, her blood running cold.
He had felt desire for her. He had refused to touch her when she was sober and willing. And then he had come in here...
Why? Why would her handsome, legally wedded husband prefer a wastebasket in the dark over his conscious, willing wife?
Desperate, heartbroken, and feeling entirely lost, Hope turned to the only place she could think of without ruining her marriage.
The question tormented her until she couldn't breathe.
She pulled out her phone and searched through her contacts until she found “Dr. Foster.”
Evelyn Foster—her psychology professor back in college. A brilliant, insightful woman whom she had always looked up to.
Her fingers trembling, she tapped the call button and asked for an online consultation.
