Chapter 2: The Nightgown and the Slammed Door

Late at night, the city’s hush settled over our high-rise. Once again, I slipped on the silky nightgown I’d bought just for him and headed toward Jake’s room, nerves buzzing beneath my skin.

The condo was quiet—only the low hum of the fridge and my bare feet on hardwood floors. I caught my reflection in the window: uncertain, but determined.

Ever since we got married, Jake had thrown himself into work, moving into the guest room so he wouldn’t disturb me. Some nights I’d watch the sliver of light under his door, listening for the faint tap of his laptop keys, waiting for him to come to me. But he never did. If I counted carefully, it had been two weeks since we’d even touched.

Jake had just finished showering and stepped out, towel slung around his neck. When he saw me perched on the bed, his hand stilled, towel clutched tight, and for a split second, something vulnerable flickered in his eyes before he masked it with indifference. “Why are you here?”

His tone was more cool than curious.

I took him in—broad chest, defined abs, the kind of physique that belonged on a GQ cover, not shuffling through a half-lit guest bedroom. With his sharp jawline and long fingers, he was the picture of effortless allure. Yet, in the half year since our marriage, I still hadn’t really gotten to know him.

Refusing to back down, I got straight to the point. “I’m here to sleep with you.”

No matter how many times he tried to brush me off, tonight I was determined to get something real from him.

Jake’s hand paused, towel halfway to his scalp. Noticing my nightgown, he gave a soft, “Okay.”

So easy? My heart skipped. He’d never agreed that quickly before. Suspicion pricked at me, and as Jake walked over, he seemed almost lost—like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Only the small nightlight glowed at the bedside, painting stripes of city orange across the sheets. Jake lay down beside me, faint coolness of water vapor still clinging to his skin.

My mind spun. My hand circled his waist, then his stomach.

Jake’s whole body stiffened, and after a moment, he looked away, his voice hoarse and indistinct. “Want me to help you?”

He didn’t wait for my answer—just moved quickly to open the drawer.

The flutter in my heart faded as his practiced motions took over. I didn’t need to ask; I knew what was coming next. He always defaulted to the same move, like a well-trained athlete running drills—fulfilling his husbandly duties, but never with his own body.

Annoyance burned through me. It was always like this.

His pants might as well have been locked. Even if he was aroused, it didn’t matter.

When I saw him take out the latex finger cot, my face darkened instantly.

Furious, I snatched it from his hand and tossed it at him. “Help, help, help—so old-school. What tricks do you have left?” My voice was sharp, frustration lacing every word.

The nightlight was too dim to illuminate Jake’s expression, but I could feel his dark eyes fixed on me—burning, maybe confused.

The hurt in my chest surged up like a spring, and I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out. “Jake, if you can’t do it, just say so. You’re not the only man in the world; I really could find someone else.”

We’re married, so why does it always feel like he’s just doing me a favor?

Jake’s voice was dry. “That’s not what I mean.” But he didn’t move closer—not even to hold my face or kiss me.

For the third time, I’d been ready to go further, but was still rejected.

I stared at the ceiling, anger and humiliation prickling under my skin. Was I really that repulsive? Or was he just that broken?

Disappointment washed over me. I grabbed the shirt I’d tossed on the bedside and got up.

With a loud bang, I slammed the door shut. The sound echoed down the hallway, and for a wild second, I wanted him to chase after me. He didn’t. I left him sprawled on the bed, just another piece of unused furniture in our empty marriage.