She Never Touched Me, But Sold Me to the World

Everyone says Lana Krause is like the moon in the sky—pure, untouched by the dust of the world.

I pursued her with everything I had. On her birthday, I knelt on broken glass just to tie her shoelaces. When she doubled over with stomach pain, I carried her up eighteen flights of stairs. Even when I cracked two ribs in the process, I didn’t let out a sound.

We were married for eight years, yet she never once let our fingertips touch. She said it would interfere with her spiritual cultivation.

At an auction, I raised my hand to bid for a Victorian amber brooch. Just then, her senior brother—recently returned from abroad—spoke up and said he wanted it too.

I didn’t hesitate. I made an unlimited bidding gesture on the spot.

He stormed out in a fury and got into a car accident. He lost his ability to have children.

That night, Lana pulled me onto the sofa. All night long, she made me call her “Lanee,” again and again.

I thought she had finally come around.

Until the next auction.

She sneered, her voice cold: “One million. For his first night video.”

A fat man raised his hand eagerly.

I made the "unlimited bidding" gesture again with my shaking hands.

——

“The next item is a little special,” the host said, grinning ambiguously.

“It’s a private video from Ms. Lana, president of the Krause Group. Starting bid: one million. Let’s enjoy a ten-second preview.”

My blood turned to ice.

The screen lit up. The room fell into stunned silence—then gasps erupted.

I was naked on the screen.

I turned slowly toward Lana. She sat expressionless in the VIP section, fingers calmly twisting the wooden meditation beads. Beside her sat Wayne Tyler, her senior from the holistic wellness seminar, eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Why?” My voice cracked, my eyes burning with tears. “Just because I outbid him for that bracelet?”

She looked over.

Her brows knit together, disgust flickering across her face. “Byron, you know why.”

My heart clenched, like it was being crushed in an invisible fist.

That night, the Victorian amber brooch was the last item at auction. Both Wayne and I wanted it. I made the bid. He stormed out, and the accident happened.

I didn’t think… I never imagined she’d blame me for it.

I always believed Lana was just cold by nature.

Even when she avoided my touch for eight years of marriage, I told myself it was her ascetic way. I accepted it, blindly, willingly.

But the look she gave Wayne just now—warm, tender, almost devout—shattered that illusion.

Even a woman of the Buddha can burn with earthly desire.

What she didn’t know was that after the accident—when the doctors said she might be brain dead—it wasn’t Wayne who stayed.

He fled the country the moment he heard.

I was the one who knelt outside the ICU for three months, begging the doctors every single day to keep trying.

I wanted to tell her. So many times.

But every time I saw that cold, impatient look in her eyes, I swallowed the words back.

I forced myself to refocus on the chaotic auction hall.

Someone drawled mockingly, “He’s got nice skin… but can he scream one million’s worth?”

Then a fat man sprang to his feet. The buttons on his suit strained over his beer belly.

He licked his lips, rubbing his palms together. “Three million! I want that video!”

I recognized him instantly—Javier Mansfield, the Mansfield family’s bastard son. Arrogant, crude. I’d punched him at a cocktail party once for crossing the line.

Now, my whole body shook with rage and shame. My stomach heaved.