The Cold Husband Novels & Stories

The man steps in like he owns the goddamn room, my breath stops and I can barely suck in any oxygen because it feels like he has sucked it all out of the room. “That’s Dr. Ian Quinn. Your husband.” he repeats. I frown. “My husband?” My brows draw tighter. “Why would I have such a cold insufferable man as my husband?” I hate how he looks at me with so much coldness. I saw how he hesitated to stay when he was asked to. My heart boils at the pity in their eyes. I hate the way they're looking at me like a charity case because of my incubator and sperm donor's greed.

He humbly respected my opinion and offered me this heavy duvet to cover myself from the cold while he slept there with nothing to cover himself. I am blushing so hard right now, for his kind gesture. Mr. Cold my Husband you are such a Darling. The only thing that gives me the wrong impression about you in the first place is your muscular build with your intense green eyes that seem to impose a cold demeanor on you and also seem to be scaring people around you.

“You’re not alone. You never were. But if you keep pretending, you’ll drown before anyone can reach you.” Celina swallowed hard. For the first time in weeks, she felt something crack. “No, I did,” her father cut in, stepping forward. His voice was harder, older, filled with barely contained anger. “We heard from your cousin. Word’s spreading. This man you married—he has another wife? Another life?” Celina finally turned to face them, her eyes red but defiant. “I didn’t know.” “That’s not the point!” her father snapped, the sharp crack of his palm hitting the dining table reverberating through the room like a gunshot. The plates rattled, and so did Celina’s resolve.

Your Husband, Maria Walker.

A woman's voice, light and breathless, floated from the living room. “Ah-ah. A sound that snagged on my frayed nerves, pulling me forward. My breath caught in my chest, a sudden, icy fist. The living room, usually a tableau of muted wealth, was a disarray of silk cushions and discarded clothing. And there, on the plush velvet sofa, was my husband, Eddie. And a woman. Young. Her legs, long and pale, were wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back, a gasp tearing from her throat. My husband, Eddie Grayson, successful CEO, paragon of Veritas City's elite, my contract husband of three years, was impaling her.

He was very excited. Looking at his bright smile, I felt utterly cold inside, as if I had fallen into a thousand-year-old ice cellar. A chill ran through me from head to toe… my husband of seven years, what means would he use to make me disappear from this world, to become his stepping stone to surrender to his mistress?

He asked me. "No, my husband is not a coward. He is Roman Atono, the leader of Russia mafia along with my dad. I insisted that I come in first since I am part of the deal." I told him who my husband is. "I love the way you hyped him. I hope he worths it." He said. "He worths more than it. But this isn't a moment of personal discussion." I shrugged my shoulders. "Fine, let him in." He commanded.