Her Germophobia Was A Lie

Alison, my wife, had rules. Strict, non-negotiable rules. I couldn’t use the private bathroom tucked into the corner of her executive suite, and I definitely couldn’t leave a single one of my personal items—not even a jacket or a pen—on her desk. It was about control, not cleanliness. I knew it, but after seven years, I’d learned to live with it. Then her little assistant, Alan, managed to spill coffee all over his pristine white shirt. Before I could even register the mess, Alison was ushering him into the restricted bathroom, telling him to shower. Not only that, she walked straight to a discreet drawer in her desk, pulled out a pair of men’s underpants, and handed them to him. My own pair. The expensive brand I only bought in New York. I felt a violent spike of pure, distilled rage. I grabbed her wrist—hard. “Clean freak? You won’t let me leave a pencil here, Alison! You won’t even let me kiss you during sex! But him? He gets to use your private shower and wear my boxers?” My voice was raw, boiling with years of forced distance and unanswered longing. A laugh, sharp and mocking, sliced through the tense air from inside the bathroom. “Because she loves me more than she ever loved you, big brother!” Alison yanked her arm out of my grip as if my touch was acid. She immediately began rubbing the spot I’d touched with a paper napkin. She didn’t offer a single word of explanation—only that familiar, frozen silence and a look of cold, contemptuous distaste. Then, right in front of me, she walked toward the bathroom door and casually began chatting with Alan, their voices light and conspiratorial, filtering out into the otherwise silent office. I pulled off my wedding ring—seven years of gold—and flicked it into the waste bin. “We’re done,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “Divorce. I don’t need a wife whose ‘cleanliness’ is just a weapon against me.”

Inside, Alan’s laughter died instantly. The air thickened into something brittle and silent. I turned, ready to walk away forever, just as a group of sales associates, weighted down with massive shopping bags, hurried through the outer door. “Mr. Thorne, good afternoon!” “These are the new designs Mrs. Thorne commissioned for you. You are truly a lucky man, sir. Mrs. Thorne clearly adores you.” “Honestly, she wouldn’t even let us touch the bespoke items with our bare hands, said you don’t like anyone touching your things.” The sales staff, rushing to gently arrange the expensive luxury bags on an empty console, beamed at me with practiced deference. My heart was a block of ice. In seven years of marriage, Alison had never bought me a single gift. The brand was one I’d explicitly told her I didn’t like. I knew, with absolute certainty, that every single one of those luxury items was meant for her little assistant. Right on cue, Alison and Alan emerged from the bathroom. Alan was wearing a crisp white shirt and a pair of trousers that, infuriatingly, fit him perfectly. He carried an air of impish, feigned innocence. He walked past me and snatched one of the leather shopping bags the saleswoman was about to hand me. “These are for me,” Alan announced, his voice dripping with triumphant spoiled entitlement. “They’re from Alison. Not for any other man. You people are blind if you think otherwise.” The scene instantly froze. The sales team stared, shocked, from me to Alison. When they saw the soft, almost maternal affection in Alison’s usually icy gaze as she looked at Alan, they snapped their mouths shut. She truly never cared about my face. She would happily stomp my dignity into the dirt in front of anyone. “Do you like them all, Arlo?” she asked, using her pet name for Alan. “I do, but my place is too small for all this, I can’t put it…” “Then leave them here,” Alison interrupted smoothly. “If you want to wear them or change, don’t ask my permission. Just come in and take what you need.” Alan grinned, a bright, smug expression. He darted a sidelong, challenging glance at me. He expected me to erupt, to throw a jealous, impulsive tantrum like I had in the past. But this time, I didn’t. This time, I was simply done with Alison. The sales associates held their breath, terrified. The expensive goods were not for the powerful husband, but for the wife’s lover. “Look at you,” Alison said, her tone softening with mock exasperation. “Your collar’s still crooked. You’re like a child.” She raised her hand, pale and elegant as porcelain, and adjusted the lapel of Alan’s freshly laundered shirt. They were standing so close, leaning into each other, a tableau of domestic bliss meant only for him. The sales people muttered quick goodbyes and practically ran from the room. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And I knew, in that instant, the news of my public emasculation would be all over the city by the end of the day. “Why don’t you two just strip naked and make out?” I asked, my voice dangerously low and coated in ice. “Wouldn’t that be more comfortable?” At the sound of my biting sarcasm, Alison pulled away from Alan, her face contorting with anger as she whirled around to face me. “Christian Thorne, that is enough!” she snapped. “I have put up with you for long enough.” “What’s wrong with you? Do you have nothing better to do than follow me around, looking for a fight?” I tugged hard at my tie. I worked twelve-hour days. I barely had time to eat, let alone “follow her around” to start trouble. “You’ve got it backward,” I corrected her. “I’m the one who’s put up with you. I’m beyond done. I’m finally accommodating your ‘cleanliness,’ and I’m walking away so you and your little boy toy can parade your affection in peace.” “Divorce. That’s all I want.” Smash! Enraged, Alison snatched the heavy, crystal paperweight from her desk and hurled it at my head. I didn’t have time to duck. The impact was immediate. Blood warmed my face, dripping steadily from a gash above my brow. Neither of us spoke. We simply stood there, glaring at each other through the chilling silence and the smell of fresh blood.