She Wouldn't Do "It"

Lindsey's words pierced me like needles of silver. I was so shocked and hurt I could barely stand.

Looking back over the years, I finally understood—there was never any phobia. She simply didn't love me enough.

I couldn't believe it. She said I made her feel nauseous.

She knew me too well. She knew where I was soft, where I was weak. And she used that weakness as the leverage for her betrayal.

I remembered Ian clearly. He was the new intern her company hired earlier this year.

The first time Lindsey mentioned him, she couldn't stop praising him.

She said Ian had ruined a major deal. But instead of backing down, that fresh intern chased after the departing clients, begging through tears for another chance, almost fainting from the effort.

That stubborn persistence, she claimed, was something few young people possessed anymore.

In the end, Lindsey herself had stepped in, furious at the clients, and dragged Ian out of the meeting.

When I heard the story, I couldn't help saying, "Isn't that just being unreasonable? He messed up the deal. The responsibility is his alone. The clients have every right to walk away. You can't force them just because Ian looked pitiful."

For the first time, Lindsey snapped at me, "And you call yourself a doctor? You've got no empathy at all. All your years practicing medicine—completely wasted."

But I didn't doubt my reasoning. I tried to point it out again.

She, however, insisted Ian had done nothing wrong. Worse, she claimed it was her fault for sheltering me too much.

Later, she gave me the silent treatment.

In the end, I swallowed my pride and coaxed her back into good spirits.

Since then, I had never forgotten Ian's name.

I never imagined that one day he would become her personal assistant.

And from that moment on, something invisible lodged itself between me and Lindsey.

When you truly love someone, you can't help but share every detail of your life with them. The day you stop sharing, it means love is gone.

All the signs were already there, rising to the surface.

…

After work, I went to bed early. Not long after, I felt movement at my side.

Her body pressed close, soft and warm, arms locking tightly around me.

The urge to vomit burned in my throat, but I forced it down and rolled away swiftly.

"It's too hot," I said coldly.

Her hand froze midair.

I could feel she was in a good mood tonight. For her to initiate a hug—this was the most intimate gesture she'd shown me in years.

But she didn't press further. Instead, she tucked the blanket neatly around me, then turned and reached for her phone.

When had it begun? At some point, Lindsey, who never stayed up late, started scrolling her phone past midnight, even carrying it with her to the bathroom.

Half-drowsy, I suddenly received a text. A strange weight in my chest told me instantly: it was from Ian.

I drew a deep breath and opened it.

It was a screenshot of his chat with Lindsey, timestamped just five minutes ago.

He had sent her a photo of himself in a bathrobe, along with a hotel room number.

His message read: [I don't dare hope you'll ever divorce for me. I just want to stay by your side, to hold you when you're sad. If you don't come tonight, I'll wait here as long as it takes.]

And Lindsey, soft-hearted as always, had typed three words: [Wait for me.]

For the first time, I witnessed the full force of a manipulative man who knew how to play weak.

And it left me utterly stunned.