Some women got flowers when their husbands were unhappy.
In Lian's case?
She got sent to therapy.
To a stranger with degrees.
The only thing worse than this appointment was the fact that she was actually on time for it.
The elevator hummed upward, each floor number blinking with deliberate slowness. Her fingers tightened on the leather strap of her handbag as she shifted from heel to heel, silently cursing them allโJin, his manager, the entire Wu conglomerate. The appointment had been dropped into her calendar without discussion, just a text: Dr. Choi. Don't be late. The same tone someone might use to schedule a goddamn teeth cleaning.
Dr. Choi.
She pictured the type immediately: a matronly old woman in orthopedic shoes, cardigan slung over her shoulders, office smelling of mothballs and moral superiority. There'd be diagrams she didn't want to see, pamphlets she'd never read and phrases like 'reignite the flame' delivered without irony. Her husband had framed it as a favor to her, a corrective measure. His exact words had been, You should talk to someone about... this problem.
This problem.
The words still burned.
He hadn't said our problem. Just hers. As though intimacy, in his mind, was a one-way street she had failed to maintain. And now she was here to be "fixed," like an appliance that didn't perform to spec.
Her mind drifted to their wedding, red silk and gold thread, the air heavy with incense and expectation. Their smiles for the cameras had been carefully arranged, like the match itself. Her family's modest manufacturing company had been drowning; his empire in steel, shipping and property, had been the lifeline. The merger of their families was less about love than balance sheets. The ink had barely dried before she was installed in his penthouse, the perfect accessory for dinners and galas.
In private, he treated her like a corporate obligation. Jin was efficient, detached and transactional. In bed, there was no tenderness, no curiosity, only expectation. She was there to meet his needs, and when she couldn't, or wouldn't, he looked at her like a faulty investment.
She wasn't a partner; she was a problem to be outsourced.
The elevator dinged.
Screw this.
She stepped into a hallway scented faintly of bergamot and paper, stopping before a brass plate that read only: Dr. Choi. No first name. No hint. Just another box to tick.
Lian's pulse spiked. Her feet stalled.
I don't want this.
How much more humiliation was she supposed to swallow?
But her father's voice came back, soft yet unyielding: Please, wว de nว'รฉr. Bear with this arrangement for three years. Only three, then you're free to divorce Jin. He'd refused to explain why, only that she must maintain the image of the renowned Jin Wu's perfect wife. No scandals. No trouble. Just smile and wave.
That was one year ago.
With a sigh and a small shake of her head, she knocked once. Her hand found the door handle but refused to turn it, as though crossing that threshold would make this ridiculous charade real. Then, she froze.
"Come on in."
That... was the voice of a man, not some esoteric ajumma.
Her gaze went to the plate once more, making sure that she'd gotten the right door. And she did. The text never said if Dr. Choi was a man or a woman, but her in-laws were far too obsessed with propriety to risk sending her off to meet a man, let alone a sex therapist, and certainly not alone.
Well.
If anything, this one wasn't on her; she was simply following instructions, as per usual.
The door swung open and she stepped inside, her hat pulled low and a pair of oversized designer sunglasses shielding most of her face. She tugged the glasses off with practiced grace, then stopped. Her breath caught. Fingers stilled mid-motion.
Mercy.
"Please come in, Mrs. Wu. I have been waiting for you."
She swallowed, looking away as she slipped her sunglasses into her bag, but not before her brain had the full ten-tenths of a second to register that this doctor was inconvenientlyโdevastatinglyโhandsome.
Shit, calm down.
His dark hair fell in just the right degree of disarray, framing sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looked like it could undo you with a single word. A pair of slender-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose, catching the light as he regarded her.
Lian blinked, perhaps a second too late, realizing that he'd told her to sit.
She cleared her throat, offering him a small nod before crossing to the divan and setting down her belongings. With her back to him, she slipped off her felt cloche and scarf, then her trench coat, letting them fall onto the cushion beside her. Her long chestnut hair tumbled free, spilling down her back, and with it came the faint trace of clean, refined florals wrapped in soft musk.
Just get it over with. Let's make this quick.
She turned around, dressed in a fitted cream silk blouse with a subtle sheen, tucked into a high-waisted pencil skirt in a deep charcoal.
"I was told you were expecting me. A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Choi."
A lie. The lie rolled off her tongue smoothly. Of course, it wasn't a pleasure. She'd rather be anywhere elseโlike, say, trapped in an elevator with a rabid Pomeranian.
She sat down, regarding him with wariness yet curiosity.
"So... how exactly does this work? Do I talk and you nod, or the other way around?"
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