He Said I Was Clingy, So I Walked Away on the Day Our Contract Ended Chapter 01

He Said I Was Clingy, So I Walked Away on the Day Our Contract Ended Chapter 01

I’ve always been good at playing a role.

After finding out my contractual husband Asher Carter was cold and reserved on the surface yet highly passionate in private, I set out to tease him relentlessly.

I loved watching his unshakable calm get stirred up completely by my teasing.

Somewhere along the way, I’d clearly overdone it. I was clingy in private, and I couldn’t rein it in even in daily life.

One afternoon, I dropped off lunch at his office and lingered outside his door when I heard his friend, Jake Henderson, ribbing him.

“Who said this was just a business arrangement that would end after three months? You rush home sharp at six thirty every day now—aren’t you sick of it?”

A beat of silence stretched out, then Asher’s low voice drifted through the door.

“Tired.”

I stared down at the insulated lunch tote clutched in my hands, frozen where I stood.

I’d always thought he left the office at ten thirty each night, but it turned out six thirty was his real quitting time.

I made up my mind right then: it was time to dial back my performance.

I remained every bit as ardent between the sheets, yet I never sent him a single unprompted text again.

When our marital contract reached its expiration date, I cheerfully slid the divorce papers across the table to him. Asher’s eyes instantly darkened, heavy and intense.

“All this time, have you treated me like your husband, or merely something you use for your own pleasure?”

…

I tossed the lunch container straight into a trash bin, then turned and stepped into the elevator to head down to the lobby.

The two front desk clerks, Lily and Chloe, brightened when they spotted me walking back out.

“Ms. Moore, aren’t you sticking around to eat lunch with the CEO today?”

I forced a quick smile and waved them off, not in the mood for small talk.

Just yesterday, my performative streak would’ve kicked into high gear, and I would’ve gushed to them about how head-over-heels we were for each other.

But Asher’s blunt admission that he was tired of me gnawed at my mood. I’d gone so far method acting this role that I’d wound up convincing myself the feelings were genuine.

Ellen, our housekeeper, looked faintly surprised to see me home early, but she said nothing and promptly prepared a full meal for me.

I ate my fill, then slept straight through until late evening.

At exactly six thirty, the sound of a car engine cutting off echoed from the driveway. I yawned and wandered down the stairs.

The man who usually only stumbled through the front door around ten thirty was standing there now, his gaze heavy and shadowed as he fixed his eyes on me.

“Are you feeling unwell today?”

When I stepped within reach instead of launching myself into his arms like I always did, Asher’s fingers twitched and curled inward almost imperceptibly, his brow furrowing in a frown.

“Nope. You’re home awfully early, though.”

I flopped back onto the sectional couch without a second thought, munching on watermelon casually.

Asher slowly lowered himself onto the cushion beside me, his familiar crisp sandalwood cologne wrapped around me, sharp, pricey, and inherently his.

Normally, the second he stepped through the front door, I’d latch onto him like a barnacle glued tight to a ship hull.

Now, as he shifted closer, I only felt an annoying twinge of irritation.

I swallowed a mouthful of fruit and shifted an inch or two away, almost imperceptibly. Asher froze mid-motion.

“You’ve been… different today.”

He was about to say more when he suddenly hunched slightly, letting out a quiet, pained hiss.

I set my phone aside and glanced up, noticing fine beads of sweat dotted across his forehead.

“Is your stomach bothering you again?”

Asher pushed himself relentlessly at work and often skipped meals entirely. His chronic stomach trouble had flared up far less often ever since I’d badgered him into eating every meal with me.

“Mhm. You didn’t bring lunch by today, so I forgot to eat.”

Whether that was a genuine oversight or a convenient excuse, I couldn’t tell.

Still, there was a faint note of hurt in his tone, and I immediately spotted a fellow drama queen underneath it all.

I studied him for a long moment.

Asher was devastatingly handsome, yet his face almost never betrayed any emotion—classic quiet, stoic type.

I’d never guessed he was just as prone to dramatic tendencies as I was—not until I’d overheard him saying he was tired of me that afternoon.

Even after taking antacid tablets, his stomach still ached too badly for him to eat dinner, and he retreated to the bedroom early. I, meanwhile, happily polished off two full servings of food for myself.

When I stepped out of the bathroom later that night, I spotted Asher sprawled across the bed, his bathrobe hanging loose across his chest, tied sloppily around his waist.

His long legs were drawn up slightly, one arm pressed over his abdomen, his brow creased with lingering discomfort.

I swallowed hard, stepping forward and tugging gently at his bathrobe to pull it lower.

“You…” He stared up at me, clear shock flickering across his face. “Even when I’m hurting like this, you still want that?”

His surprise was understandable. Just the day before, I would’ve knelt beside him, rubbing his stomach soothingly while cooing over his pain and urging him to rest early. Inevitably, my gentle touches would stoke his desire and lead us into our usual passionate nights.

Now I’d skipped all the tender lead-up entirely, coming off as almost ruthlessly eager.

“Don’t you want this? Your body says otherwise, though.” I tilted my chin up with a faint, dry smirk.

In an instant, he rolled over and pinned me beneath him, his eyes swirling with dark, simmering frustration.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you.”

He was putting on just as much of a show as I was. For all his claims of stomach pain, his own hunger was obvious, and he moved with far more enthusiasm than someone truly doubled over with cramps.

Once we were both spent, I rolled onto my side, ready to fall asleep on the spot.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Asher’s face—paler than before. He stared at me for a long stretch before speaking, his voice rough and hoarse.

“Grab two more antacid pills from the bottle on your nightstand for me.”

Our gazes locked, and I blinked at him.

“Can’t you get out of bed and get them yourself?”

Silence hung thick in the room. Even under the dim warm lamplight, the pallor in his cheeks was unmissable, and his frown deepened sharply.

“My stomach hurts.” He leaned into the phrase deliberately, dragging it out like he was waiting for me to dote on him.

Sighing, I tossed the pill bottle over toward him, not bothering to indulge his act. I turned my back and pulled the duvet higher around my shoulders—I was in too decent a mood to pick a fight.

I’d always needed something to hold while sleeping. Before marriage, it was an oversized body-length bunny plush; after marrying Asher, I’d curled up around his arm every night.

I tucked my face against the familiar plush rabbit now, falling asleep under Asher’s heavy, brooding stare.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the soft toy in my arms shifted, replaced by his familiar arm wrapping around me. I mumbled sleepily and squeezed tighter, and a quiet sigh sounded from right above my head.