His Misunderstanding of Love
When he turned to look at me, there was not a trace of newlywed warmth in his eyes—only a cold distance: I have misogyny, I can't share a room with you.
I clutched the freshly changed silk pajamas, the warmth at my fingertips slowly fading.
At that moment, I did not realize that those words would mark the beginning of three years of torment.
In the days that followed, I tried to draw closer to him.
During breakfast, when I tried to hand him the milk, he would instinctively slide the cup away; While watching TV, when I reached for his shoulder, he would excuse himself, saying, 'I still have files to deal with,' and retreat to the study.
I tried ninety-nine times in all, each time met with a different excuse, pushing me away.
The hundredth time, I wore the lace lingerie he once praised in college, layered under a long trench coat, and went to his company.
The taxi stopped below the Luke Group building. I tilted my head back to look up at the towering structure he had built with his own hands, still harboring a last shred of hope—that perhaps, in a place so familiar to him, he might finally let down his guard.
The elevator rose to the eighteenth floor, and as the doors opened, I immediately heard a familiar female voice.
It was Yolanda Scott, my stepsister and his executive secretary.
Her voice carried a coquettish playfulness, a softness I had never heard before: "Yale, you told Yolanda you had misogyny before—so that was a lie, wasn't it?"
Then came Yale Luke's voice, gentle enough to drip with warmth, a stark contrast to the coldness he always showed me: "The one I've always loved is you. How could I ever touch her?"
"Misogyny is just an excuse; I simply don't want her clinging to me."
I stood outside the office door, the thermos in my hand suddenly feeling unbearably heavy—inside was the chicken soup I had simmered since five in the morning, hoping to help him regain his strength.
Cold wind seeped through the cracks of the corridor windows; I tightened my coat but still shivered, as if shards of ice had pierced my heart.
Yale Luke's secretary passed by, eyes wide with surprise when he saw me; he seemed about to speak but swallowed the words, lowering his head and quickening his pace away.
Only now do I realize that everyone in the company probably knows about their affair, except me—I'm the only one kept in the dark.
The office door suddenly swung open, and Yale Luke and Yolanda Scott stepped out.
Seeing me, Yale's first reaction was to shield Yolanda behind him, his brows knitting so tightly it seemed he could crush a fly. "What are you doing here?"
I lifted the thermos, my fingertips whitening from the tight grip, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I know you've been busy at work, so I brought you some chicken soup."
"I just heard you and Yolanda talking about work, so I didn't want to interrupt."
He glanced at the thermos without even reaching for it. "I don't like drinking this; you can take it back."
The impatience in his tone was like a bucket of cold water, draining all warmth from me.
Yolanda peeked out from behind him, a triumphant smile on her face. "Sister, I'm Yale's secretary. It's perfectly normal for me to work closely with him."
"You're a housewife who keeps coming to the company. People will gossip, and it won't be good for Yale."
I looked at Yale, clinging to a final shred of hope. "Do you really think my coming here affects you?"
He sneered coldly, his eyes full of disdain: "You bring chicken soup and cold medicine every day—any nanny could do that."
"You have to flaunt yourself in front of me, as if you've forgotten I suffer from misogyny? Just seeing you makes me feel sick."
"What about Yolanda Scott?" I asked with reddened eyes, tears welling up, "When you see her, why don't you feel uncomfortable?"
"Yolanda Scott doesn't degrade herself like you do."He spat out without the slightest hesitation, "She has her own job, unlike you, who just spends all day orbiting around men."
I clenched my fists tightly, my nails digging into my palms, the pain keeping me awake.
All the sacrifices I made over the past three years were seen by him as 'demeaning'—I cared for his meals and daily needs, managed everything at home, even sold my design studio to help him through the company crisis; all of it became a cruel joke about 'revolving around a man.'
I didn't say another word and turned away.
The hem of my trench coat brushed the corridor floor, making a faint noise that seemed to echo my resentment.
As I stepped out of the Luke Group's gates, the sky opened up, and cold raindrops fell on my face, mixing with tears until I couldn't tell which was rain and which was sorrow.
Back home, I locked myself in my room and finally broke down, crying uncontrollably.
The image of his car accident churned in my mind—I remember that day I received the call from the hospital, my hands trembling so much I didn't even change my shoes before rushing over.
He stayed in the Intensive Care Unit for a week; I waited outside every day, sleeping only two or three hours. After he was transferred to a regular ward, I made porridge for him daily, fed him medicine, wiped his body—so exhausted I could have fallen asleep standing up.
The four years we spent squeezed together in a rented room, building our business from scratch, also came vividly back to me.
Back then, he wasn't as successful as he is now. We ate instant noodles every day. I helped him design products and negotiate with clients. He would cup my face and say, "Daisy, one day I will make you the happiest woman in the world."
When the company faced a crisis, I didn't hesitate to sell my design studio and invested all the money into his company—I thought we would go from school uniforms to wedding dresses, from nothing to everything.
But on our wedding night, his single word, "misogyny," shattered all my hopes.
After that, he became a different man, avoiding me and rejecting any kind of intimacy.
Once, when I reached out to hold him, he pushed me away and said, "Are you really that dependent on men? How improper."
I stood there stunned, unable to explain—I just wanted to get close to him, to feel even a flicker of his warmth.
My tears ran dry; I sat on the sofa, unintentionally drifting off to sleep.
The next morning, I was stirred awake by footsteps. Looking up, I saw Yale Luke stepping out of the bedroom in a suit. Seeing me asleep on the sofa, his brow furrowed even deeper.
"What do you mean by this?"He looked down on me, his voice laden with scorn: "Sleeping out here to make me pity you? Daisy, don't play these games."
I slowly sat up, rubbing my aching eyes, my voice hoarse: "I didn't."
"I no longer expect you to pity me. Just live your life as you please."
I tried hard to keep my gaze calm; over the years, I had long since learned to hide my emotions.
But he grew even angrier: "Daisy Scott, do you know I hate the way you act more than anything?"
"Always pretending to be sensible, as if I'm bullying you. You like playing the victim so much—why don't you go be an actress?"
After saying that, he turned and walked away without another glance at me.
I sat on the sofa, watching his retreating back; my heart felt like a barren wasteland—I suddenly felt exhausted, too weary to keep holding on.
When Yale Luke came home that afternoon, he didn't go to the study but walked straight up to me, his eyes filled with disgust barely held back: "Do you know why I'd rather touch Yolanda Scott than you?"
I lifted my head to look at him, saying nothing—I knew the words to come would be hard to hear.
"Because you're too flattering."He sneered coldly, each word piercing my heart, "The way you look at me, as if I were your everything, disgusts me."
"Do you think I don't know? You married me only because I resemble Eric Lincoln."
Eric Lincoln was my childhood friend and also his lifesaver.
Three years ago, Eric died forever in an accident while saving him.
Yale Luke always believed I married him as a substitute for Eric.
But he doesn't know that the one I've always loved is him—from the very first moment I saw him in college, I liked him. To me, Eric Lincoln was just a friend, as close as a brother.
Every time I try to explain, he refuses to listen and thinks I'm just making excuses.
"I'm not misogynistic."He looked at me, his gaze filled with deeper contempt, and said, "I just hate you."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there alone.
My heart tore in pain, aching so deeply I was speechless—so all these years of love had been nothing but a cruel deception to him, a lie born from mere resemblance.
I took out my mobile phone and dialed the lawyer's number. "Help me draft a divorce agreement."
The lawyer hesitated for a moment. "Ms. Scott, are you sure? Mr. Luke's assets..."
"I'll walk away with nothing."I interrupted him, my voice firm. "I don't want anything; I just want to divorce as soon as possible."
The lawyer urged me to reconsider, saying I should at least fight for my rights, but I refused.
I've been with him all these years not for money. Now that we're separating, I don't want to take any of his belongings.
After hanging up, I started packing my things.
Opening the wardrobe, I realized that since his accident, almost everything he gave me was matched by something identical that Yolanda Scott had—the pearl necklace I loved was exactly the same as the one around Yolanda's neck; the cashmere coat he gave me for my birthday, Yolanda had worn a similar one just last week.
I realized I had always lived in someone else's shadow, wearing someone else's clothes.
I threw all those things into the trash and only packed a few pieces of clothing I had bought myself.
The suitcase was small and quickly packed. I dragged it as I walked out of this home I had lived in for three years.
Just as I reached the door, a crowd of reporters swarmed around me, cameras flashing incessantly. Questions rained down like a storm: "Mrs. Luke, is it true you stole your sister Yolanda Scott's engagement to marry Mr. Luke?"
"You and Mr. Luke have slept in separate rooms since your marriage. Is it because he doesn't love you?"
"Some say you lived off Mr. Luke after marriage. Now that you're divorcing, is it to claim a share of the property?"
The glare of the flashbulbs stung my eyes. Instinctively, I raised my hand to shield my face, took a deep breath, and steadied my voice: "The marriage agreement was approved by both families; there's no question of abduction."
"The matters between Mr. Luke and me will be handled privately. I am in the process of divorcing and hope everyone will stop disturbing my life."
Pushing through the crowd, I hailed a taxi. Only after I sat inside did I finally breathe a sigh of relief.
The driver asked where I wanted to go. I said, "Anywhere nearby. Just find a hotel close by."
After checking into the hotel, my mobile phone suddenly rang. It was Yale Luke calling.
I hesitated for a moment but answered. On the other end came his voice, laced with anger: "Daisy Scott, are you doing this on purpose?"
"You said those things in front of the reporters to smear Yolanda Scott, didn't you? She's innocent. Why are you treating her this way?"
I was momentarily stunned — my responses to the reporters had been courteous and never once mentioned Yolanda Scott. Why would he say that?
"I didn't smear her."I frowned, my tone growing cold. "I only answered the reporters' questions truthfully."
"Answer truthfully?"He sneered coldly, "Do you know what everyone is saying out there now? They all say Yolanda is the homewrecker, the one who destroyed our marriage!"
"It was the reporter I arranged. I thought you would admit the engagement was originally Yolanda Scott's. You're just a substitute bride!"
"Why won't you admit it? Why insist on shifting the blame onto Yolanda Scott?"
I finally understood—those reporters were sent by him. He wanted me to admit to being a 'proxy bride,' to shift all the blame onto me, protecting Yolanda Scott.
A cold shiver ran through me; it turned out that, in his heart, I was always the one who could be sacrificed.
"Yale Luke," I said calmly, staring out the window, "I've already had the lawyer draw up the divorce papers. Let's finalize our divorce as soon as possible."
"From now on, I won't interfere with your life with Yolanda Scott anymore, nor will I be the Daisy Scott who revolves around you. I want to be myself."
After saying that, I hung up immediately and blocked his number.
I took out my mobile phone, opened a travel app, and booked a round-the-world trip—I wanted to leave, see the world beyond, and forget everything here.
The knocking on the door woke me up the next morning.
I thought it was a hotel staff member, but when the door opened, I saw Yale Luke holding my mobile phone, his face darkened: "Where are you going?"
On the phone screen was the page to cancel my flight ticket—I had booked a round-the-world trip, but he had canceled it.
I gave a bitter smile, tears finally escaping: "Yale Luke, what exactly do you want?"
"We're getting divorced. What happens to me no longer concerns you."
He frowned, his voice cold and stiff: "Tomorrow, I will hold a press conference to announce the divorce. You must attend."
"You'd better think carefully about what to say and what not to say when the time comes."
He finished speaking and turned away without giving me another glance.
I closed the door and leaned against it, tears streaming down my face. In my clenched fists, my nails bit into my palms, leaving marks—I told myself I couldn't cry anymore; he wasn't worth it.
The press conference was held in the conference room of the Luke Group.
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