From Neglected Wife To Empowered Heiress

For six years, my husband, Corbin, used his severe mysophobia as an excuse for why he could never touch me. I believed him, until I saw him tenderly caress another woman-his ex-girlfriend, Annis. When I was later left bleeding on the pavement after saving her life, he walked right past me to comfort her, his eyes filled with a fury I'd never seen.

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't call for help. He just looked at me with disgust and said, "My priority is you," to her, before walking away.

The final blow came when Annis smugly revealed the truth: Corbin only married me for my family's connections. He called our marriage a "contract."

I wasn't his wife; I was a business deal.

So, while he was distracted by Annis's "anxiety" in my hospital room, I had him sign a document he thought was a template for a friend. It was our divorce agreement. He's about to find out he's not just single-he's also broke. Because I just gave away every last cent of the fortune he gave me to win me back.

Chapter 1

Kennedy POV:

For six years, I convinced myself that my husband, Corbin Franco, couldn't stand to touch me because of his severe mysophobia and OCD. But that lie shattered today, the moment I saw him gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind another woman's ear.

In New York's elite circles, Corbin and I were a paradox. He was the city's most brilliant and ruthless prosecutor, the "Ice Prince" of the Manhattan DA's office, a man whose cold precision in the courtroom was legendary. I was Kennedy Pitts, a socialite and heiress from a family whose money was so old it was practically fossilized. We were the perfect, glossy power couple on paper.

In reality, our three years of marriage, preceded by three years of dating, had been a landscape of polite distance.

Our home was less a shared space and more two separate, sterile territories. His side of the closet was organized by color, fabric, and season, each hanger precisely one inch apart. My side was… well, it was a closet. We had separate bathrooms, separate studies, and, of course, separate beds in a master suite so large our sleeping quarters were in different zip codes.

Every surface in his domain was wiped down with antiseptic cloths hourly. He wore gloves to handle the mail. He never touched doorknobs with his bare hands. He owned more hand sanitizer than a hospital.

And he never, ever touched me.

Not a casual hand on my back as we entered a gala. Not a simple holding of hands while we walked in Central Park. Our wedding kiss had been a brief, sterile press of his lips to my forehead, a gesture so devoid of passion it felt more like a diagnosis than a declaration of love.

For six years, I had tried. Oh, how I had tried.

In the beginning, I' d playfully try