Chapter 1Locked by My Surgeon Husband

Seven years of a sexless marriage.

In a desperate, pathetic attempt to save what was left of us, I finally agreed to his request for "something adventurous." Outdoor sex. In the car. A thrill to jumpstart a dead heart.

But an hour before our designated time, I scrolled past a thread on a popular confession site.

The prompt: What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done for "love"?

The top comment, glowing with thousands of upvotes, read:

“I have to tell you about my ex-boyfriend’s current wife. Tonight, she’s ‘sacrificing’ herself for love. They’re going to be ‘cooking’ in the very car he bought for me! And get this—he’s live-streaming the audio to me. He promised me he’s staying ‘pure’ for me. He’s only using his hands on her.”

The comment section was a furnace of outrage, but the poster just slapped down a photo of a luxury car in response:

“A Rolls-Royce Phantom. Have you peasants even seen one in person?”

“That frigid bitch is lucky to even sit in those seats. It’s the highlight of her miserable life.”

The moment the high-res photo loaded, the blood in my veins turned to ice.

That car... was parked right in front of me.

* * *

The cold glow of my phone screen felt like a blade in the dim light of the parking garage. I refreshed the page, praying my eyes were deceiving me, hoping for a different license plate, a different color—anything.

But there it was. A tiny, almost invisible scratch on the hood, right where the light hit it. It matched the photo in the post perfectly.

The post was timestamped three hours ago. The comments were still exploding:

[OP, you’re toxic as hell. Why are you even still talking to this guy?]

[Live-streaming? No way. Drop the link!]

[This is sick. That poor wife is being humiliated and she doesn’t even know it.]

My hands were shaking so violently I almost dropped the phone. I checked the time. Ten minutes until our "date."

I took a numb step forward, peering through the driver’s side window. In the shadows of the passenger seat, I saw them. Cartoon plushies. Pink, fluffy, and incredibly juvenile. They looked utterly ridiculous in a car this expensive, and they were the polar opposite of Bennett’s cold, stoic aesthetic.

Looking at them, a memory surged up like bile. Two years ago, when I bought my own car, I had decorated it with cute, cozy accessories. Bennett had looked at them and uttered five words that killed my joy: "Cheap, tacky, and incredibly immature."

I had cleared the car out that same night.

But now, here were these pink rabbits and star stickers, plastered all over this Rolls-Royce like a shrine to someone else’s whims.

The keys bit into my palm. My eyes burned.

The elevator chimed.

Bennett stepped out. He had traded his white lab coat for a casual cashmere sweater, though he still carried that air of effortless, high-society arrogance. He saw me and gave a curt, professional nod, as if we were meeting for a board or a surgery rather than an intimate encounter.

He pulled the door open. "Been waiting long? Get in."

His voice was flat. He wasn’t looking at a wife he wanted to seduce; he was looking at a task he needed to complete.

I didn't move. My voice came out as a brittle whisper. "When did you buy this car?"

He stiffened for a fraction of a second. "A while ago. It’s been in storage. I lent it to a friend for a bit."

He slid into the driver's seat.

I fought back the sob rising in my throat and climbed into the passenger side. The air hit me immediately—a thick, cloying perfume. Sweet, floral, and nauseatingly familiar.

As soon as the engine purred to life, Bennett hit a button. The privacy curtains slid shut, sealing us in. The world outside disappeared, leaving us in a tomb lit only by the ghostly blue glow of the dashboard.

The darkness felt heavy. Suffocating. I thought about the "live-stream" mentioned in the post and my heart hammered against my ribs.

"Why is it so dark?"

"It’s for the mood, Elena," Bennett said, his hand reaching across the center console. His breath hitched as he leaned in.

I instinctively recoiled, my hand sweeping nervously across the gap between the seats.

My fingers brushed something.

Bennett frowned, his annoyance flashing in the dim light. "What is wrong with you today?"

I didn't answer. I reached down, feeling into the crevice of the leather seat until I grasped a piece of fabric. I pulled it out.

A sliver of light escaped through a gap in the curtain, just enough for me to see what I was holding.

Black lace panties. Worn. Stained in the center with a dark, dried patch that left nothing to the imagination.