After 99 Failed Declarations of Love, I Gave Up on This Ascetic Monk

I was secretly married for five years to a man known for his aloof, almost monastic discipline.

After 99 failed attempts to win him over, I decided to let go.

“Sis, I want to come home.”

I hung up the phone. Passing by his meditation room, I heard hushed sounds.

Through the crack in the door, I saw Alex. His clothes were disheveled, and his prayer beads hung loosely around his neck.

One hand was discreetly hidden, the other clutching a photo of Chloe, the family’s adopted daughter.

A muffled groan escaped him, and he whispered her name, his voice thick with tears. He kissed the photo with desperate reverence.

It was only a month ago that I finally realized he wasn’t truly the pure, detached man he seemed.

For the first few nights, I was stunned, unable to sleep. But after watching for 30 straight days, I felt nothing but numb.

All his spiritual talk, his ascetic practices—they were just a smokescreen, an excuse to keep me at bay.

The entire meditation room was plastered with Chloe’s photos.

He was her nominal uncle, a forbidden love that could never see the light of day.

So he chose me, to be his pathetic shield.

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