Chapter 1
I broke my back hauling cement to put my germaphobe wife through her PhD. On our anniversary, I showered three times and sprayed on the perfume she liked, only to be turned down for the ninety-ninth time. She pulled on medical gloves and started blasting disinfectant around the room.
"Don't come near me reeking of mud and grime! That's all you dirtbag types ever think about. The idea of mating with you like some animal makes me sick!"
The next morning, I carried breakfast upstairs to try to make peace, only to hear muffled rustling and stifled moans coming from the bedroom. A man's voice, dripping with amusement, drawled, "Serena, doing our biometric data mapping on your marriage bed... you don't think Asher will mind, do you? Some low class probably wouldn't get it anyway. I shouldn't come between you two. Maybe I should just leave."
Serena grabbed his hand and pressed it against her chest, sneering, "We're sacrificing ourselves for a scholarship. What would that day laborer know? Once the three million from Cole Financial Group hits the account, we're flying straight to Aldoria for the advanced haptic feedback trials. Worst case, we get divorced. Nobody's going to interfere with us."
Looking at that face full of arrogance, I gave a cold laugh and dumped the breakfast into the trash. I turned around and made a call. "Harrison, pull every last dollar of funding from the Aldoria project."
……
I hung up. With a bang, I kicked open the master bedroom door.
On the bed, that man stood with one foot planted brazenly on our marriage sheets, kneading Serena Brooks's ankle with lazy possessiveness. Her usually icy face was flushed with a bashful pink I hadn't seen in ten years of marriage.
The moment she saw me, Serena grabbed the alcohol spray bottle by the bed on pure reflex and blasted it straight at my face.
"Asher Thorne, what the hell is wrong with you?" she shrieked. "My rule is three rounds of disinfectant before you knock on my door. You dirtbag types are crawling with germs. Can't you even remember that much?"
The stinging liquid burned my eyes and I staggered against the nightstand. A pale object clattered off the edge and landed at my shoe. It was a silicone toy they hadn't bothered to clean, still slick with sickening residue.
A second later, Serena shrieked and rushed over, shoving me off with the back of her hand in disgust before cradling the thing to her chest like something precious. "Get out! That's Tristan Cross's custom artistic model, one of a kind! Are you trying to ruin my research?"
Then she turned to Tristan, her voice going syrupy sweet. "Tristan, I'm sorry. Something filthy wandered in. Let me take out the trash first."
I hadn't heard that tone from her in ten years.
Ten years ago, on a rainy night, she'd tanked her exam and tried to end her life. I was the one who dragged her out of the churning muddy water. Back home, I locked away my own 1580 on the SATs and threw myself onto the construction sites, hauling sand and cement to put her through retakes and all the way to her doctorate. Back then she used to cry over my blistered hands, swearing that once she graduated she'd take care of me. That single promise made every bitter day taste sweet.
But later, once she became the lofty doctor, she claimed she'd developed severe germaphobia. She couldn't stand what she called the mud-and-grime smell on me and wouldn't let me touch her. Even the bathroom in our own home had a fingerprint lock only she could open. What she never knew was that all these years, I'd long since climbed from the mud beneath her feet to a peak she could never reach.
Veins throbbed at my temples. "This is your so-called elegant research? Burning through my blood money to run some sleazy little operation on the bed I paid for?"
Serena laughed in my face. "Have you been huffing so much dust on that site your brain finally rotted? You think I got where I am on the two hundred bucks a day you scrape together? Please. Cole Financial Group, the top conglomerate in Seattle, picked me for my talent. Three million a year in grants, just for me. A bottom-feeder like you doesn't get to talk about money with me."
Tristan, savoring the show, clung to her hand with feigned innocence. "Serena, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come. Your husband breaks his back every day. Don't fight over me. I'll give up the Aldoria funding..."
Serena's face flipped in an instant, her hand tightening around his. "Don't worry, Tristan. The investor said the money comes through tomorrow. Worst case, we divorce. I won't let anything filthy stain the fruit of our art."
Rage boiled through my veins. Choking back the nausea, I dug the yellowed marriage certificate out from the bottom of the closet and hurled it in her face. "We're getting divorced." Then I turned and walked out.
Just before the door shut, I heard her sneer, "Playing the tough guy? Give him three days. He'll come crawling back like a dog. Without me, that day laborer would starve in a ditch."
I didn't look back, because she'd find out soon enough how worthless her precious talent really was, and exactly who was pulling the strings at the Cole Financial Group she was so desperate to grovel to.
