My Husband Can Hear Every Unspoken Thought Of Mine

When my family forced me into an arranged marriage, I bypassed all the arrogant billionaire heirs and chose the only doctor in the bunch.

Only after we got married did the truth slowly dawn on me. He was exactly like that tragic doctor friend from those cheesy romance novels, the one who constantly gets dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to treat the main character's runaway lover.

After witnessing this ridiculous scenario play out a few times in real life, I completely abandoned any romantic notions of building a real relationship with him.

Seriously, who wants to spend their marriage competing with a bunch of dramatic, codependent billionaire man-children for their own husband's attention?

But what I never, in my wildest dreams, expected, was that he could suddenly read my mind.

...

For people born into our circle, an arranged marriage is a card we always knew we would have to play.

It was a fair trade. We enjoyed a life of obscene luxury, so it was only natural we had to pay the toll when the time came.

In that regard, I considered myself incredibly lucky. I actually got to choose my own groom, provided he came from the designated pool of trust-fund heirs.

Truthfully, I didn't care all that much who it was. Everyone in our world understood that a dynastic marriage was nothing more than a polished performance, a gilded handshake to seal a merger between two corporate empires. But since the choice was mine, I wanted someone normal.

I did my research.

One candidate was hopelessly entangled with his ex who had moved to Paris, a classic case of chasing a ghost. Absolutely not.

Another was currently playing a toxic game of hide-and-seek with a runway model he kept in a penthouse downtown. Pass.

A third had just bought a yacht for an actress twice his age. No, thank you.

After crossing off the disasters, I thought of Andrew.

The few times I had seen him at charity galas, he had always seemed the picture of quiet elegance. His name sounded like the perfect fit for a brooding billionaire CEO, yet he was the only man in his circle of heirs who didn't run a company.

Andrew was a doctor. A genuine, terrifyingly brilliant academic who had pushed himself through an elite MD-PhD program at the country's top medical school.

He fit the part perfectly. He spoke with a gentle, measured cadence, and he always looked impeccably clean and put together. Whenever I saw him, he was clad in crisp, pale suits, giving him a sort of serene, saintly aura, likely amplified by my own bias toward his profession.

Our match came together with ridiculous ease. The moment our parents sat down to discuss it, they practically shook hands on the spot. When they asked Andrew, he reportedly agreed without a single second of hesitation.

Within a month, I went from a girl who had never even held hands with a boy to a married woman.

On our wedding day, I moved into the townhouse he had bought for us. The warm beige decor and minimalist aesthetic suited his calm demeanor perfectly.

After showing me around the place, Andrew led me to the door of the master bedroom. His voice was soft and warm. "Even though this is an alliance, I don't want our marriage to be a hollow contract. I want us to take our time, get to know each other, and build something real."

He pointed toward the guest bedroom across the hall. "I'll sleep in there. Don't feel pressured. I won't touch you until we both feel ready."

I closed the door to my new room and let out a breath.

To be honest, he was far better than I had anticipated. Even though I had never heard a whisper of scandal about him, his closest friends were all notoriously high-maintenance playboys with a penchant for keeping dramatic side-pieces.

Birds of a feather usually flock together.

But Andrew seemed entirely different from them. Even so, I guarded my heart. I only hoped we could maintain a polite, respectful distance. As long as he didn't bring his messes to my doorstep, I had no intention of policing his private life.

Two months flew by in a blur of domestic peace.

One evening, after a long shower, I lay on my bed and stared at the ridiculously sheer lace nightgown draped over the vanity chair. My heart began to hammer against my ribs.

Andrew was a perfect gentleman, completely content to keep his hands to himself.

But I wasn't a saint.

I was twenty-four, and my romantic experience was practically nonexistent, but my mind was firmly in the gutter. I had a gorgeous, tempting husband living right across the hall. Why on earth was I voluntarily living like a nun?

Besides, during these past two months, we had fallen into a beautiful rhythm. He was home by six every evening. We shared cozy, quiet dinners. We spent weekends wandering through museums, and he would sit patiently in the salon while I got my nails done, or curl up on the sofa with me to watch terrible soap operas.

I had to admit, I was falling for him.

One afternoon, while out shopping with my friends, I glanced at my phone and realized it was already half past five.

A sudden, instinctual thought flashed through my mind: I need to go home.

The thought made me pause, a strange, complex wave of emotion washing over me.

I realized I was no longer calling the townhouse a house. In my mind, it had become home. I had developed a deep, unexpected sense of belonging to that space, and to Andrew.

I had grown up watching the chaotic, miserable marriages in our social circle. My own parents were a masterclass in dysfunction, with my father parading a revolving door of mistresses and my mother pretending not to notice. I thought I was entirely immune to the concept of love and family.

But the quiet, steady pull of daily life with Andrew had worn down my defenses.

Thinking about the kind of man he had shown himself to be over the past few weeks, a tiny spark of courage flared in my chest. I wanted to take a gamble.

Maybe, just maybe, trusting someone wouldn't end in disaster.

Andrew's parents were one of the rare couples in high society who genuinely loved each other. A son raised by them had to have some decent bones in his body.

And if it turned out to be a trap, well, perhaps everyone had to touch the fire once to learn it was hot.

I slipped into the black lace nightgown, walked quietly over to Andrew's bedroom door, and leaned against the frame in a pose I had seen in a magazine. I tapped gently on the wood.

The door opened, and Andrew froze.

His eyes darted frantically left and right, searching for a jacket or a blanket to wrap around me, but there was nothing within reach.

As the seconds stretched, his gaze darkened, burning with a sudden, intense heat. His voice dropped to a low, husky register. "Evie, are you sure?"

When I nodded, he didn't hesitate. He swept me into his arms.

The room was dark save for the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp. My temperature spiked, my thoughts scattering into a hazy fog.

As I lay back, my eyes caught the stark white of his bedsheets, and a highly inappropriate, mundane thought popped into my head: Those sheets are so white, they must be a nightmare to bleach.

I never got to test that theory.

Just as Andrew untied his tie, his phone began to wail on the nightstand.

He drew in a sharp, ragged breath, his chest rising and falling against mine. He braced one hand beside my ear, leaning over me to grab the device.

"Andrew, Gavin drank way too much tonight. He's doubled over in agony. Can you please come take a look at him?"

The voice on the line was frantic. It belonged to an assistant I vaguely recognized from one of Andrew's trust-fund friends.

Andrew went still. When he spoke, his voice was rough and thick with friction. "I understand. I'll be there soon."

The fog in my brain vanished instantly. I grabbed the lapels of his half-undone shirt, a sudden, sharp ache blooming in my chest. "Don't go," I whispered.

Andrew looked down at me, his eyes softening as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to my forehead. "Be good, sweetheart. I need to go check on him."

Watching him pull away to put his clothes back on, a wave of hot anger rushed through me. I stared at his back, screaming silently in my head: Oh, "be good, I'll go check." Sure. Who knows if you're checking on your buddy or your secret soulmate.

Andrew paused mid-motion, his shoulders tensing. He slowly turned around, giving me a profoundly complicated look.

"What?" I asked aloud, keeping my face blank.

He shook his head, looking slightly dazed, and went back to buttoning his shirt.

I continued my silent tirade: Go ahead, run along. Nobody can stop the great Saint Andrew. Who needs 911? Who needs a hospital? You must have magic hands, since apparently a grown man's stomachache can only be cured by you.

Having vented my frustration internally, I felt a bit better. But as Andrew walked toward the door, he stumbled slightly over his own feet. I must have imagined it. He was famous in our circle for being completely unshakeable, a man who never lost his cool.

"Evie," he said softly, pausing at the door. "I'll be back before you know it."

I fell asleep long before he returned.

When I woke up the next morning, he was sleeping soundly beside me, back in his usual pajamas.

The sight of him only made my annoyance flare up again.

What kind of man gets dressed and runs out of the house in the middle of that?

I had literally felt the heat radiating off his skin when he reached for his phone. He had wanted me. And yet, he had still walked out.

I chewed viciously on a piece of toast at the kitchen island.

Andrew padded into the kitchen a few minutes later. Seeing my dark expression, a soft, helpless laugh escaped him. He stepped up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his lips to the shell of my ear.

"I'm so sorry, Evie. Gavin has been dealing with some massive crises lately. He drank himself into a bleeding ulcer last night, and I was genuinely worried about him."

What was done was done. I didn't want to drag out the argument.

But later that afternoon, while I was lounging on the sofa, a cheesy romance drama started playing on the television.

The plot was a classic: the toxic billionaire lead was chasing the female lead, she got hurt, and the male lead immediately summoned his doctor friend in the middle of the night to treat her.

A lightbulb suddenly went off in my brain.

All the romance novels I had ever read came rushing back to me in a wave of sudden clarity.

My god. Andrew wasn't the main character. He was the exhausted, midnight-summoned doctor friend who existed solely as a plot device for his chaotic billionaire buddies.

Billionaire CEOs? We had plenty of those in our circle.

Drinking themselves to the point of hospitalization? Check.

A doctor friend on speed dial? Check.

Summoned in the middle of the night? Double check.

I pictured Andrew being dragged from pillar to post by a bunch of dramatic, emotionally stunted men, running around like a tired golden retriever trying to put out their self-inflicted fires. I couldn't help but chuckle.

That evening, I didn't make a move, but Andrew knocked on my bedroom door anyway.

His hair was perfectly styled, and the faint, woody scent of his cologne drifted into the room. He leaned against the doorframe, a brilliant, hopeful smile playing on his lips. "Any chance you have room for me tonight?"

I arched an eyebrow. "What's the matter? No urgent medical crises to attend to tonight?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he cupped my face in his warm palms, tilted my head up, and kissed me. His lips were soft, parting mine with a slow, deliberate hunger.

With the ice broken from the night before, everything fell into place naturally.

But just as he pulled his shirt over his head, we both froze.

We stared at each other, then slowly turned our heads to look at his phone resting on the nightstand, terrified it would start buzzing again. The sheer absurdity of the moment broke the tension, and we both burst into quiet laughter.

He leaned down, his voice thick with amusement. "I'm not going anywhere tonight, I promise."

My cheeks burned. He made it sound like I was the one who couldn't wait.

That night taught me a valuable lesson: appearances can be highly deceiving.

Andrew was a good man. In every sense of the word.

Professionally, he was entirely dedicated to finding a cure for a rare, terminal illness. He had a heart of gold, treated his family with utmost respect, and remained fiercely loyal to his friends. To me, he was always gentle and attentive.

But being too good of a person came with its own set of complications.

It wasn't long before our plans began to suffer. We would set aside an evening to celebrate a milestone, or plan a quiet weekend getaway, only for his phone to interrupt us.

It didn't happen every day, but when it did, it was always at the worst possible moment.

The assistants calling his phone sounded more panicked and pathetic with every call.

One night, it was a billionaire friend who had drunk himself into another stupor. Another night, it was someone else who had gotten into a toxic, screaming match with a lover and allegedly collapsed from exhaustion.

When people claimed someone was on the brink of death, how could I hold him back?

Even though I found the drama ridiculoussince calling a private ambulance was hardly a monumental taskthey always insisted it had to be Andrew.

Andrew always tried his best to resolve the issue quickly and rush back to me, but the damage was always done. The romantic mood would be thoroughly ruined, leaving a cold, lingering disappointment in its wake.

Today was our first wedding anniversary.

The night before, I had sat Andrew down and told him explicitly that I did not want a single interruption.

He had been working late at the research lab for weeks, and we had barely spent any quality time together. This anniversary was supposed to be our sanctuary.

We spent the afternoon wandering through a quiet gourmet grocery store. It felt like a luxury just to walk side by side.

For my last birthday, Andrew had surprised me by cooking a full three-course dinner. The food had been spectacular, perfectly tailored to my tastes. Back when we first realized we had feelings for each other, we had gone all out for every holiday. But for our first anniversary, we wanted nothing more than to cook a simple meal together in our kitchen.

I leaned against the dining table, watching Andrew move around the stove, a sudden wave of warmth washing over me.

A year ago, I never could have imagined my married life would look like this. It wasn't wild or theatrical, but it was incredibly warm.

I walked over and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind.

He let out a soft laugh and began to turn around to face me.

Then, the phone rang.

My stomach dropped. Over the past year, I had developed a physical, pavlovian dread of that ringtone.

I pressed my forehead against his back, listening to him answer.

On the other end, an assistant's voice crackled with familiar, practiced panic. "Dr. Vance, please, you need to come right away..."

Anger, sharp and hot, flared in my chest. I reached around him, snatched the phone straight out of his hand, and spoke directly into the receiver. "Is your finger broken, or are you physically unable to dial 911? If he is dying, take him to a hospital."

The line went dead silent.

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the counter. I was shaking. "That was Chase Montgomery's assistant, wasn't it? I know his voice by now. You seriously believe a playboy like Chase is drinking himself to death over some girl?"

Andrew looked torn, his brow furrowing. "I heard he actually fell hard for someone this time..."

"He falls hard every single Tuesday!" I snapped, my voice trembling. "If you walk out that door tonight, don't talk to me about us anymore. Since your precious bros are so important to you, go spend the rest of your life with them."

And yet, he still walked out.