My Obsessed Husband Loves My Acne

I had been married to the boy I grew up with for exactly three years.

Then came the day I accidentally overheard him complaining to a friend, casually dropping the bomb that he only married me for my looks. The second she loses her looks, Im filing for divorce, hed said.

Hearing those words felt like swallowing ice. A cold, hollow ache bloomed in my chest, carving out the spaces where my certainty used to live. So, I made a decision. I decided to make myself ugly. I told him I was having a severe allergic reaction to a new makeup line.

For the next three months, I walked around with a face completely covered in furious, angry "cystic acne," fully expecting him to make good on his promise and hand me divorce papers.

Instead, the opposite happened. He didn't ask for a divorce. He hovered. He became meticulously, suffocatingly attentive, asking how I felt every waking hour.

I began to second-guess myself. Maybe his feelings for me went deeper than skin level. But that careless, jagged sentence hed thrown around with his friends still lived in my head, a splinter I couldn't dig out.

After agonizing over it in the quiet hours of the night, I decided to take the initiative. I asked for a trial separation, telling him we needed space to see if we were actually meant to go the distance.

He didn't yell. He didn't cry. He just stared at me in heavy, suffocating silence for a long moment, then turned and walked out the door.

But later that very night, my phone rang. It was his best friend. Through the receiver, his friend sounded thoroughly bewildered, asking Chase why he hadn't just signed the papers. Isn't this what you wanted? his friend pressed. Shes lost her looks. Why aren't you leaving?

Before I could even process the question, Chases voice blasted through the background, thick with tears and defensively loud. "You don't know shit! Shes beautiful even with a breakout! Look at me! Im the one whos washed up! Im losing my hair, Im losing my youth! Why are you always telling me to divorce her, huh? Are you trying to make a move on my wife?!"

His friend was stunned into silence.

I stood in my kitchen, clutching the phone to my ear, completely and utterly speechless.

1.

The moment I got the text from Chases friend about where they were drinking, I left the house without a second thought.

When I reached the private booth at the back of the lounge, the door was slightly ajar. His voice drifted through the narrow crack, loud and entirely uninhibited.

"Who says I'm in love with her? If she hadn't been the prettiest girl in our zip code her whole life, theres no way I wouldve married her."

Ice flooded my veins. I froze, my hand hovering inches from the brass handle.

"I don't let her do chores because she's delicate. If she breaks a nail, shell cry, and crying ruins her face."

A beat of laughter from the room. Then, the killing blow.

"The second she loses those looks, I'm divorcing her."

I didn't stay to hear the rest. I turned on my heel, walked out into the crisp night air, drove home, and sat rigidly on the edge of our California king bed.

Two hours passed.

If I hadn't heard the words bleed directly from Chases own mouth, I never would have believed he didn't love me. We had been orbiting each other since we were in diapers. Wed rarely spent more than three days apart. Getting married wasn't just a choice; it felt like the inevitable pull of gravity.

And for these past three years, he had treated me like glass. He never let me lift a finger around the house. He handed over all the finances for me to manage without blinking. Anyone looking from the outside would have crowned him the ultimate Instagram-husband, the gold standard of modern devotion.

Especially me. I felt it every day.

But sitting there in the dark, sifting through the memories, a quiet, terrifying realization settled over me: Chase had never actually said the words "I love you."

Click.

The front door opened. Chase stumbled in, the heavy scent of bourbon and expensive cologne trailing behind him. For the first time in three years, I didn't get up to help him out of his jacket.

He grumbled as he kicked off his shoes. "Everyone elses girlfriends came to pick them up. Why didn't my wife come get me? Does she not love me anymore?"

"I didn't see your text," I lied, my voice sounding entirely detached from my body.

He nodded slowly, swaying on his feet. "Okay. I'm gonna shower. I'll warm up some milk for my wife in a minute."

Watching his clumsy, retreating back, a sharp wave of acidity rose in my throat.

When he emerged from the shower, slightly more sober, he handed me a warm mug of milk. I drank it in one go, only then realizing his eyes were fixed entirely on my face.

"Why are you staring at me?" I asked, my voice tight.

He wrapped around me like an octopus, burying his damp hair into my shoulder. "Whos the prettiest girl in the world? Oh, right. My wife."

It was the same sweet nothing he whispered a hundred times before. Before tonight, it would have made my heart flutter. Now, it just felt like a mocking echo.

If I was being honest, I never thought of myself as breathtaking. Compared to Chase, who had girls throwing themselves at him since middle school, I was, at best, conventionally attractive. Maybe because wed spent so much time together, his aesthetic preferences had just morphed to look exactly like me.

I decided to test the waters. "What if I'm not pretty someday? What will you do then?"

He loosened his grip, pulling back to look at me critically. He studied my face for a long moment before diving back into the crook of my neck. "Impossible. You'll always be the prettiest. Wait, are you breaking out? I told you not to stress so much about the gallery. Ill wire you some money tomorrow. Go book a weekend at that wellness retreat in Sedona."

So it was true. He really did just marry me for my face.

He nuzzled against my chest like a golden retriever puppy. "My wife. My beautiful wife."

My chest felt like a graveyard. Operating purely on instinct, I gently pushed him off, turned my back to him, and pulled the covers up.

Behind me, the sleepy haze in Chases eyes seemed to clear. I felt him frown before his arm wrapped heavily around my waist, pulling my rigid body tightly against his chest as we slept.

2.

The next morning, Chase practically tackled me for his good-morning kiss before rushing off to his architectural firm.

Staring at my phone screenat the fresh $5,000 transfer hed sent with the note For my girls spa dayI made up my mind.

If Chase didn't actually love me, I refused to settle for the illusion of a marriage. And if my face was the only thing keeping him here, I was going to destroy it, force his hand, and make him ask for the divorce.

Fortunately, I worked as a professional makeup artist for a living. Special effects were child's play.

After expertly applying seven or eight inflamed, cystic "pimples" across my cheeks and jawline, I set down my beauty blender. The effect was horrifyingly realistic. Even I felt a little repulsed looking in the mirror.

I left my phone alone for an hour. By the time I checked it, Chase had flooded my notifications.

Whats my wife up to? Work is so boring today.

Gotta grind so I can buy my girl more bags.

When I didn't reply, there was a fifteen-minute pause. Then, the barrage started.

Why aren't you answering? Are you annoyed with me?

Wow, okay. Guess you don't care about my texts.

People talk about the seven-year itch, but its only been three. Are you tired of me already?

Is it because I was drinking last night? Do I look haggard? Am I losing my looks?

It was a string of manic, spiraling texts, but I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to entertain him.

Half an hour later, the bedroom door flew open.

I gasped. I hadn't expected him to actually come home in the middle of the workday! My makeup wasn't fully set yet.

Chase stood in the doorway, chest heaving, a bead of sweat tracing his temple. The irritation on his face vanished the second his eyes locked onto mine. He froze.

He stared at my face. I watched the emotions war across his features in rapid succession. Panic spiked in my chestdid he realize it was makeup?

"I had an allergic reaction to a new foundation," I blurted out. "I look awful, don't I?"

His eyes softened into an expression of sheer devastation. They actually welled up with tears.

He crossed the room in two strides and pulled me fiercely into his arms. "Oh, my god. Is this why you were asking those questions last night? Did you use concealer before bed so I wouldn't see?"

A tearan actual, literal tearfell from his eye and hit my collarbone. "I didn't even notice you were hurting. Im a terrible husband."

Wait. What?

This was not how the script in my head was supposed to play out. Was he acting?

"Don't worry, baby," he whispered into my hair. "Starting today, Im working from home. I'm going to take care of you, manage your stress, and get you back to perfect."

He pulled back and gently reached out, brushing his thumb against one of my fake blemishes. Then, his brow furrowed.

"Wait... these don't feel raised. Are they..."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Are they what?"

His expression turned utterly tragic. "Oh god, the infection is entirely under the skin. It's deep tissue!"

...

3.

True to his word, Chase set up a makeshift office in our dining room and devoted himself entirely to my "recovery."

Meanwhile, I was mentally crossing off days on the calendar, waiting for him to serve me papers.

Two months passed. Then three. My "acne" hadn't cleared up in the slightest, yet Chase hadn't shown a single flicker of disgust. Every night, he still pulled me tight against his chest. Even worse, he made a point of gently kissing my textured, inflamed "skin" before falling asleep.

I lived in constant terror that my setting spray would fail.

But according to the conversation Id overheard, he should have bailed months ago. Staring at my reflection, I was genuinely baffled.

Was I just not ugly enough yet?

Taking advantage of a rare afternoon when he had to go to a physical job site, I pulled out my heavy-duty SFX kit. I went to town.

When Chase walked through the door that evening, he took one look at me and actually broke down.

"Baby, its spreading," he cried, dropping his briefcase. "We have to go to a dermatologist. I don't care what it costs."

I shook my head, avoiding his gaze. "No. I hate doctors." I took a steadying breath. "If you think I look hideous now, you should just..."

"Are you insane?!" he interrupted, looking thoroughly scandalized. "In your current medical condition, you want to kick me out? Whos going to make your meals? Whos going to make sure you're hydrated?"

I fell silent.

It hit me then. Chase was exactly what people described when they talked about "good men"the kind of guy who would do the right thing and take care of you, even if the romantic love wasn't there. He was doing this out of pure duty.

And if that was the case, I absolutely could not anchor him to a loveless marriage for the rest of his life.