Part 3The Intimacy Trap

The feeling was nauseating, disgusting. After an eternity, I pushed myself up and stumbled to the restroom, desperate to wash the sticky, milky residue from my skin. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Noah, Victoria’s junior assistant, who had just posted on social media.

The photo showed him lounging casually in a brand-new sports car, a luxury watch glinting on his wrist, a triumphant grin on his face. “One second at the dealership, the next it’s mine. Mwah! My boss-lady spoils me rotten!” The photo was cleverly taken, subtly revealing a flash of lingerie in the backseat… the very lingerie I’d helped Victoria pick out that morning.

I stood frozen, my gaze locked on that photograph. My breath caught in my throat, a panicked flutter in my chest. My hand trembled, my finger accidentally brushing the screen, "liking" Noah’s post. Before I could even react, Victoria’s call came through, her voice heavy with accusation: “Aaron Caldwell, are you never going to stop? Is it really that interesting to constantly invade my privacy? You want to see so badly? Fine! Come over now, I’ll give you an eyeful!”

I stood, ashen-faced, in the corner. A thousand tiny ants of pain gnawed at my heart, suffocating me. Soon, the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth again. The sheer absurdity and unbelievable nature of it all left me numb, my head throbbing with a dull ache. Five years of marriage, in this moment, felt like a cruel, elaborate joke.

My throat burned. I swallowed the blood, my voice hoarse. “Victoria, what am I to you, really?”

The person on the other end paused, her breathing rasping into the receiver. After a long silence, she, uncharacteristically, offered an explanation: “I just refunded a couple of bubble teas. Do you really need to be so dramatic, like your life is ending? Fine, I’ve restored your allowance. Just stop bothering me with these petty issues!”

Petty issues? So, in Victoria’s eyes, my humiliation and ridicule by colleagues was a petty issue. Being assaulted and doused with bubble tea by a furious merchant was also a petty issue. Was only Noah’s well-being considered important? Hearing her dismissive placation, I squeezed my eyes shut, suppressing every emotion. Then I asked her: “Victoria, I was so humiliated at work today. I want to resign and find a new job. Is that okay?”

Victoria’s voice instantly shot up, her tone laced with unbearable irritation as she accused me: “Are you threatening me? Is it because I didn’t let you spend money however you pleased? Aaron Caldwell, have I spoiled you too much? Can’t you think about our future?”

I blinked, my dry, aching eyes burning. The irony was suffocating. How could she so righteously accuse me of squandering money, yet without a flicker of hesitation, spend hundreds of thousands on a luxury car for Noah? Was it because I never fought, never demanded, simply devoted myself to her for five years? The glowing screen of my phone, displaying that pathetic $1,500 Family Link allowance, felt like a series of stinging slaps across my face. Mocking. Absurd.

I had been working overtime for a solid week, so utterly exhausted that my vision blurred, as if I might collapse at any second. Pain pulsed in my chest. I asked her: “Did you ever truly consider our future? Victoria, in your eyes, am I truly that stupid?” Perhaps the despair in my voice was too obvious, or perhaps my choked sob reached her ears. Victoria paused, took a breath, and, suppressing her impatience, spoke to me: