Strings Muffled by the Fog

For eight long years of marriage, my husband Jordan—the most powerful man in Rivermouth—remained as cold and restrained with me as ice.

Everyone in our circle envied me, whispering that Jordan loved me to the bone.

To protect my fragile, trauma-scarred body, he would soak in ice water every night, suppressing what he called a “severe sex addiction.”

For eight full years, he never touched me.

I believed it.

Like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood, I held onto this twisted, suffocating love.

Then came the day I performed the ninth hymen reconstruction surgery for a girl named Jennifer. In her anesthesia-drugged murmurs, I heard my husband’s name—clear as day.

“Jordan… gently…”

In that moment, the beautiful dream I’d cherished for eight years shattered with deafening clarity.

…

Blinding and sterile, the shadowless lamp filled the operating theater with white light. Peeling off my blood-stained gloves, I tossed them into the medical waste bin; they landed with a dull thud.

The Head Nurse approached, her voice low. “Dr. Margaret, about this girl Jennifer… it’s the ninth time. She always says it was an accident, but I think—”

I didn’t respond, only staring at the name “Jennifer” on the medical chart, my mind buzzing.

The Head Nurse sighed. “Don’t push yourself too hard. I’m sure Mr. Jordan has something special planned for tonight. After all, it’s your eighth anniversary.”

Yes. Eight years.

Numbly, I removed my white coat and left the operating room.

My phone lit up with a message from Jordan—gentle and considerate, as always.

*“Margaret, I’ve reserved a table at ‘Cloud Nine’ for 7 p.m. James will pick you up. Love you.”*

Love me?

Those three words sent a wave of nausea through me.

Back home, I sat in the vast, empty living room, gazing at the enormous wedding portrait on the wall. In the photo, Jordan looked devastatingly handsome, his eyes adoring. I smiled demurely, a porcelain doll under perfect protection.

Now, that doll was covered in invisible cracks.

Lifting my wrist, I looked at the Patek Philippe watch Jordan had given me. He’d said it was for my safety—equipped with the most advanced tracking system so he could find me instantly if anything happened again. I never realized it had another, unused function: real-time audio monitoring.

Almost against my will, I opened the dedicated app on my phone and connected to the watch.

I took the watch off, placed it inside an exquisite jewelry box, and called Jordan’s driver. “James, could you deliver this box to Mr. Jordan at Cloud Nine? Tell him it’s my anniversary gift.”

After doing this, I felt utterly drained. Collapsing onto the sofa, I put on my headphones.

At exactly 7 p.m., my headphones filled with the muffled sounds of a restaurant—clinking cutlery, distant chatter. Then Jordan’s voice, tinged with impatience.

“What is this?”

James replied respectfully, “Sir, it’s a gift from Mrs. Jordan for your anniversary.”

A brief silence. Then the sound of a box being opened.

A playful male voice