My Cold Husband's Secret Obsession

I married Tristan three years ago. We've slept in separate rooms for one thousand and ninety-five days.

Everyone says Tristan is cold and ascetic, like some untouchable deity.

I used to think so too, until tonight, when I pushed open his study door to finally settle that long-delayed divorce agreement.

I witnessed a scene that made my face flush and my heart race.

Cassidy's POV

The main light in the study was off. Only the blue glow from the computer screen barely outlined the silhouette of the man behind the desk.

The usually immaculate Tristan was now leaning back in his leather chair.

His shirt collar hung wide open, exposing a large expanse of flushed chest. His tie dangled loosely around his neck, pulled askew.

His entire body was trembling violently.

And the instant I pushed the door open, a heavy, nasal groan drilled clearly into my ears.

"...Mm."

I froze in the doorway, my palm gripping the door handle instantly slick with sweat.

What was he doing?

In the middle of the night, hiding in his study-what was he doing?

My gaze involuntarily traveled past his shoulder toward the lit computer screen.

The screen seemed to show a video window, but I only caught a glimpse of a blurred, flesh-colored blur.

"Who let you in?!"

An furious roar exploded through the room.

Tristan's reaction was startlingly fast. Almost the instant my eyes landed on the screen, he slammed the laptop shut.

He spun around, his phoenix eyes alarmingly red.

He sat there in the darkness, chest heaving violently, staring at me with deadly intensity.

"Get out!"

He ground his teeth, voice hoarse. "Who gave you permission to barge in without knocking? Get the hell out!"

His savage expression scared me into taking a step back, the divorce papers in my hand nearly slipping to the floor.

A massive wave of shame and fury surged through me.

Three years of marriage, and he wouldn't even touch me once.

I'd even suspected at one point that he had some kind of dysfunction down there, and felt guilty enough to buy him six months' worth of vitamins and supplements.

And the result?

He wasn't impotent. He just wasn't interested in me!

He'd rather hide in his study watching God-knows-what filth on his computer, rather handle things himself, than fulfill his duties as a husband!

"Tristan, you disgust me."

I took a deep breath, forcing back the sting in my eyes, and hurled the papers at him.

"Since you're so in love with your computer, let's just get divorced! I don't want this 'Mrs. Bennett' anymore!"

White pages fluttered through the air. One sharp edge sliced across his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood.

Tristan didn't even seem to feel the pain.

He just sat there rigidly, hands gripping the desk edge so hard his knuckles were white, nails nearly embedding into the wood.

His Adam's apple bobbed as though he wanted to say something, but in the end, only one word squeezed from his throat.

"Leave."

I let out a cold laugh, turned, and slammed the door behind me.

Back in my bedroom, the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. My hands were shaking.

What had these three years been? A decoration? A joke?

Not only did I have to endure a sexless marriage, I had to endure this kind of mental humiliation too!

I dragged out my suitcase and started throwing clothes into it haphazardly.

I couldn't do this anymore. Not for one more minute!

Just as I zipped up the suitcase and prepared to leave, a massive crash of shattering glass echoed from downstairs.

Then came the housekeeper, John's panicked scream.

"Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett, are you ok?! Someone help! Mr. Bennett collapsed!"

I froze mid-motion.

Collapsed?

I wanted to just walk away, but my feet seemed rooted to the spot.

A few seconds later, cursing my own soft heart, I dropped the suitcase and rushed out of the room.

Downstairs in the living room, Tristan lay collapsed beside the sofa, his laptop thrown to one side.

His eyes were shut tight, his face deathly pale, but his body was burning hot.

Even unconscious, his body continued to convulse uncontrollably, incoherent murmurs spilling from his lips.

I ran over and tried to lift him. The moment my hand touched his skin, I was scalded by the shocking temperature.

"Tristan? Tristan!"

I leaned close to his lips, trying to hear what he was saying.

Amid the chaotic, ragged breathing, I finally made out those two syllables.

He was calling.

"...Cassidy."

I froze.

He was calling my name?

Just then, the laptop on the floor suddenly flickered to life.

On the screen, that video window popped up again.

I instinctively glanced over.

This time, I saw it clearly.

It wasn't some explicit video. It wasn't some cam girl stream.

It was surveillance footage.

And the background was my room.

The woman sleeping on the bed, clutching a pillow, was clearly me from last night!

Cassidy's POV

I stared at that glowing screen, blood seeming to flow backward through my veins.

What was this?

A chill ran down my spine.

I thought he was just cold and indifferent. I didn't realize he was a voyeur?

"Mrs. Bennett! Stop standing there! Call an ambulance!"

The housekeeper's tearful, frantic shouting pulled me back to reality.

I snapped out of it, looking down at the deathly pale man in my arms.

Even unconscious, his hand still gripped my wrist in a death grip.

His body temperature was abnormally high, his scorching breath fanning against the hollow of my neck, making my skin tingle.

"Don't call an ambulance."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "Call Dr. Morgan. This kind of thing... can't get out."

If the outside world found out that Tristan Bennett, billionaire CEO, collapsed from watching surveillance footage of his own wife late at night, the company's stock would probably crash by morning.

Half an hour later, Dr. Morgan, our private physician, arrived in a rush.

After a thorough examination and an IV drip, it was well past midnight before Tristan's condition stabilized.

"How is he?" I stood by the bed, looking at that face that remained sharp even in sleep, my emotions tangled.

Dr. Morgan removed his stethoscope and sighed. "This is acute stress-induced hyperthermic convulsion. And there's a large residue of sedatives in his system. He's been taking them long-term."

He gave me a meaningful look. "He has a strong constitution, but even he can't take this kind of abuse. Some things can't be cured with medicine. You'll need to be patient."

Long-term sedative use?

I was stunned.

Was that pill bottle in the study earlier really filled with sedatives?

After seeing Dr. Morgan out, I didn't leave.

I sat in the chair beside the bed, watching the sleeping Tristan.

The room was very quiet, only the soft drip of the IV breaking the silence.

My gaze fell again on that laptop.

The screen had gone black.

But that surveillance footage stuck in my mind like a thorn.

If he was spying on me, why hadn't he touched me once in three years?

Unless...

He was some kind of psychological deviant who only liked to watch, not act?

Or maybe he saw me as some kind of observation subject?

"...Don't go."

Just as I was lost in wild speculation, the man on the bed suddenly moved.

Tristan's voice was hoarse, carrying the incoherence of someone not fully awake.

I instinctively tried to pull my hand back, only to find my wrist still clamped in his grip.

He opened his eyes.

Those eyes, usually cold as ice, now looked somewhat unfocused and moist from the fever and medication.

He stared at me fixedly, as if unable to distinguish dream from reality.

"Cassidy?" He called my name, his voice impossibly soft.

"You're awake?" I kept my face cold, trying to shake off his hand. "If you're awake, let go."

Hearing my cold tone, clarity returned to Tristan's eyes for a moment.

He released my hand and tried to sit up, but collapsed back down from weakness.

His gaze shifted and landed on the laptop on the nightstand.

His pupils constricted sharply. He raised his head, staring at me hard, and asked, "You saw it?"

I didn't avoid the question, meeting his eyes directly. "I saw it. So Tristan, care to explain? Installing surveillance in the master bedroom-am I a criminal under interrogation, or a pet you're raising?"

Tristan pressed his thin lips into a tight line, his jawline tense.

He didn't explain.

Silence spread through the air.

After a long while, he finally spoke, voice hoarse, tone full of mockery. "Since you saw it, I'll give you what you want."

"I'm a pervert."

He looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling into a self-deprecating arc. "I'm a pervert who spies on you. Is that reason enough for you to divorce me?"

Cassidy's POV

Of course it was enough.

It was the perfect reason for divorce.

But seeing him like that, the fire inside me inexplicably died down by half.

If he really hated me, why would he call my name in his dreams?

"Tristan, that reverse psychology trick is pathetic."

I crossed my arms. "You want to scare me away by playing the pervert card? So your pathetic ego can stay intact?"

Tristan's expression froze for a moment.

I leaned down, bringing my face close to his.

I could even see his fine lashes trembling.

"You think I'll be scared?" I smiled. "Tristan, let's make a deal."

"What?" His brows knitted together, clearly not following my train of thought.

"I'm not getting divorced."

I straightened up, speaking deliberately. "Since you like watching surveillance footage, I'll let you watch to your heart's content. But what's the fun in just watching?"

"Starting today, I'm moving back into the master bedroom."

I stared into his eyes, enunciating each word. "I'll change clothes in front of you every day. I won't lock the bathroom door. I'll wear those lace nightgowns you hate most and parade around in front of you. Since you like torturing yourself, I'll just see how long you can hold out!"

Tristan's face instantly turned ashen.

"Cassidy, you wouldn't dare!"

He ground his teeth, looking like he wanted to strangle me right there.

"Why wouldn't I dare?"

I shrugged, turning to leave. "I'm Mrs. Bennett, legally. If you can't stand it, you can move out of the villa right now."

I glanced back at him and winked. "Or you could beg me. Beg me to sleep with you."

"Get out!"

Behind me came the dull thud of a pillow hitting the door.

Since he wanted to hide, I'd just peel away his shell layer by layer.

I'd see what kind of heart was hidden beneath that cold exterior.

...

Tristan and I fell into a cold war.

Though he didn't move out, he avoided running into me as much as possible.

He left early and came home late every day, diving straight into his study the moment he returned.

And I kept my word.

I replaced all the sleepwear in the master bedroom with nothing but slip dresses.

Every night, I deliberately left the bedroom door cracked open, letting the hallway light spill inside.

I knew he was watching.

Even if he didn't come into the room, I knew those eyes were staring at me from behind some screen somewhere.

That feeling of being watched was both chilling and carried an indescribable thrill.

The fourth night.

I'd just gotten out of the shower and was about to blow-dry my hair when my phone rang.

It was my friend Mia calling.

"Cassidy! Help! My clingy ex showed up at my door. Can you come get me out of here? Please!"

I sighed helplessly. "Fine. Send me the address."

After hanging up, I casually threw on a trench coat over the low-cut silk nightgown I was still wearing, grabbed my car keys, and headed out.

I didn't notice that from the second-floor study window, a pair of eyes was staring fixedly at my car as it drove away from the villa.

Half an hour later, as my friend and I walked out of the bar entrance, a black car screeched to a halt right in front of us.

The window rolled down.

Revealing Tristan's dark, stormy face.

His gaze landed on my open collar, his eyes murderous.

"Get in."

He coldly spat out those words.

I hesitated for a moment, then released my friend's hand, gave her an apologetic smile, and opened the car door to get in.

The door had barely closed, and I hadn't even buckled my seatbelt yet, when Tristan suddenly leaned over.

His overwhelming presence instantly engulfed me.

He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him, his voice dangerous. "Cassidy, my patience has limits."

I was forced to tilt my head back, looking at him so close I could see every detail.

This was the closest we'd been in three years of marriage.

I could even see myself reflected in his pupils.

"What?"

I challenged him. "You can spy on me, but I can't have friends?"

"Spy?"

Tristan suddenly laughed.

The smile carried a touch of pathological obsession.

"Since you know I'm a pervert, you should know..."

His fingers traced my lips, his fingertips scorching hot.

"Prey marked by a pervert isn't allowed to be touched by anyone else."

The next second, without any warning, he lowered his head and kissed me fiercely.

Cassidy's POV

Tristan kissed me aggressively, with no technique at all.

I was pinned against the passenger seat backrest, nearly suffocating.

Just when I thought he was going to have sex with me right there in the car, he suddenly stopped.

Tristan abruptly released me and collapsed heavily back into the driver's seat.

He was gasping for air, chest heaving violently, veins bulging on the back of his hands, as if desperately restraining some out-of-control impulse.

His body was shaking, worse than that time in the study.

"Buckle up." After a long moment, he forced those words from his throat.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, looking at him. "Tristan, what's wrong with you?"

"Don't ask."

He didn't look at me, slamming his foot on the gas pedal. The car shot forward like an arrow released from a bow.

On the way back to the villa, he drove terrifyingly fast.

Tristan kept his face tense the entire time, not saying a word.

The moment we arrived home, before the car had fully stopped, he pushed the door open and got out.

His steps were somewhat unsteady, but he walked quickly, heading straight for the second floor.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and chased after him.

"Tristan!"

He completely ignored me, taking the stairs two at a time, rushing into the study and slamming the door.

I stood outside the door, hearing the sound of rummaging inside.

I raised my hand and pounded on the door. "Tristan, open the door! You can't take those pills randomly! Dr. Morgan said those are powerful sedatives. Taking too many will cause problems!"

"Get lost!"

A suppressed roar came from inside, accompanied by the sound of a glass breaking.

"Don't worry about me, Cassidy. Stay away from me!"

The voice was laced with pained groans.

My hand froze mid-air.

Just from one kiss, he had such a reaction?

Had he really reached this pathological state?

But why?