His Unwanted Wife, My New Dawn

g mysophobia. To my husband, Killian, I was a contaminant he was

broken. He worshipped her, believing she was the angel who'

ite in the process. But he laughed in my face, calling me too fragile. He knelt on a filt

she wanted it. He forced me to kneel and apologize for

the true mistress of the house and made me climb a danger

od, I felt nothing. The love I had stubbor

orce papers in my hand. My old life was over

pte

ODSON

flinch. It was always 2 AM, and it was always the same caller. My assista

," a harried voice mumbled. "But Mr. Rutled

cency. Again. My world had shrunk to this predictable cycle of chaos and cleanup, a

e flat. I was already reaching for m

already pale faces of the officers and the grimy walls. I walked through the heavy doors, my heels

en I s

. He looked disheveled, yes, but not unhappy. Not really. Isabel Griffin, the influencer who had effortlessly stolen his attention, was clinging to his arm. Her silk

hem like this, but it never got easier. Each time was a fresh wound, twist

g closer to Killian. "My feet are free

them. His face, usually a mask of detached indifference, softened into a look of profound concern. He looked at her as if she were the most fragi

whose OCD and mysophobia were legendary, was kneeling on a dirty police station floor, touching anot

touch his clothes without wearing gloves, lest my "unclean" hands contaminate them. I once reach

p, laced with disgust. "Do you know how many g

intimacy, even the most chaste touch, was always carefully orchestrated, often prefaced by a sterile hand-washing ritual, or simply avoided altogether. "You'

man with tired eyes, gave me a sympathetic glance. "Trouble, Mrs. Rutledge?" she asked softly, her

throat. "I understand,"

ounter. "They need to be bailed out. A

edge, on dotted line after dotted line. Each stroke was a fresh humiliation, a publ

ance, devoid of any recognition, any guilt. It was as if I were merely a functionary, an invisi

tinted windows gleaming. Killian guided Isabel

ng into him. Her voice, usually so high-pitched and

I' ve already contacted your manager. It' ll all be handled." He gave her a reassurin

till holding the signed papers, clenched. The pa

lace I wanted?" she asked,

t had never once been directed at me. "O

n of open-mouthed kisses to his jawline, his neck.

hers, intertwining their fingers, his head bending towards her in an intimate gesture. My legs felt like jelly. I slumped against the cold

was a tool, a necessary evil, to maintain appearances while he lived his life with another woman. I was a ghost in

ne. There had been no tender murmurs, no soft glances, no promises of a shared future beyond the business alliance. I ha

leanliness. I walked on eggshells, meticulously sanitizing everything, making sure our home was a sterile sanctuary, hoping t

his carefully constructed world of order-all shattered for her. He reveled in the very public indecency he woul

, to manage the PR nightmares, to soothe the ruffled feathers of investors and board memb

is OCD usually preventing such indulgence, but with Isabel, he seemed to shed all his inhibitio

ly not meant for me. He was looking past me, into some imagine

frozen over the keyboard. "S

trapped, freezing... thought I was going to die. And then she came. My angel. She found me

ccident. Two years ago. I knew th

' t Isabel. It was me. I found you. I was the one who cli

a, you wouldn' t know a mountain from a molehill. You' re too fragile. Too delicate. Always ha

d a little more. He didn' t remember. He truly

the signed papers still clutched in my hand, leaving me with only the bitter taste of truth and the crushing weight of