Allergic to Me, Addicted to Her

On the Upper East Side, the Voss family mansion holds a famous secret. 

My husband, Ethan Voss, is allergic to women. Including me. 

Our wedding night five years ago set the rules. I, Seren Hale, sat on the edge of the bed, blushing, and leaned in to kiss him. He violently kicked me off the mattress. He turned pale, sprinted to the bathroom, and threw up until he choked. He moved into the study that same night. We never shared a bed again. 

For five years, I’ve worn silk gloves and long-sleeved turtlenecks around the house. I keep a strict two-meter distance. To the media, he’s the "Last Chaste Gentleman of Wall Street," a ruthless billionaire who refuses to even shake hands with female CEOs at charity galas. 

I thought it was a disease. Until today.

We were hiking the rugged cliffs of the Hudson River Valley. Ethan was trying to secure a private art collection from a deaf-mute billionaire. I was there as the project coordinator. Lila, a pretty 22-year-old intern, came along as the sign language translator. 

The trail was steep and narrow. Suddenly, Ethan’s foot slipped on some loose gravel. He lurched backward toward the drop.

"Ethan!" I panicked. Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed his bare wrist. 

His reaction was immediate. Pure, visceral disgust flashed in his eyes. He violently shoved me.

"Don't touch me!" 

The force threw me off balance. My feet left the ground. I slid backward, tumbling over the edge of the cliff. My chest scraped against the jagged rocks before my fingers hooked a narrow ledge. I dangled in the air, the freezing river roaring far below.

"Ethan!" I screamed. "Pull me up! Please!"

He didn't even look down. Instead, he turned his back to me and rushed over to Lila, who was crying and shivering against the cliff wall. He pulled her tight into his arms. His bare hands rubbed her shoulders. 

"Shhh, don't be scared," he whispered, his voice impossibly soft. "I'm right here."

I hung over the abyss, staring at his large hands wrapped securely around her waist. 

Suddenly, the deaf collector rushed to the edge. Panic contorted his face as he dropped to his knees, reaching down and desperately grabbing my hand. 

But he was exhausted from the hike. His arms shook violently, and I could feel his fingers slowly slipping against my skin. 

"Ethan!" I screamed. "Help us! He can't hold me!"

Ethan finally walked over to the cliff's edge. He looked down, but his eyes didn't meet mine. They fixed on my bare forearm where my sleeve had ripped. His brows pulled together in intense repulsion, and he kept his hands firmly in his pockets. 

"The river below is deep enough," he said. "The rescue team is three minutes out. You won't die."

Above me, the collector’s strength was completely gone. His fingers slid from mine. 

I plummeted backward, crashing into the freezing, violent currents.

Everything went black.

I woke up to the sharp smell of bleach and the steady beep of a heart monitor. My chest burned with every breath. Severe lung infection from the dirty river water. 

I turned my head. Ethan wasn't there. His assistant, Grayson, stood at the foot of my bed, typing on his iPad. 

"Mrs. Voss," Grayson sneered, not bothering to look up. "Do you have any idea how close you came to derailing Mr. Voss’s cross-border merger meeting tonight? Causing a scene like that."

I ignored him. A sharp, hollow pain ripped through my lower abdomen. I touched my stomach. The doctor walked in a minute later, holding a chart, and delivered the death sentence. 

The baby was gone. 

I had endured over a hundred painful hormone injections. My stomach was bruised black and blue for months just to conceive this IVF baby. And now, it was washed away in the freezing river. 

Ethan finally showed up on day three. 

He walked in wearing a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't bring flowers. 

"Why didn't you wear your gloves?" were his first words. "You know my condition. Grabbing me like that on a cliff... your recklessness was just stupid."

He glanced at the medical chart on the bedside table. He saw the miscarriage report. His eyes didn't even flicker. 

"If a child can't survive a simple accident, it has no place in this ruthless world," he said coldly, checking his Rolex. "It's better this way."

My chest tightened until I felt like I was suffocating. I gripped the bedsheets. 

"Better this way?" I choked out, my voice trembling with rage. "Then tell me, Ethan. Why could you hold Lila? You said you're allergic to all women."

He shifted, just slightly. "She was terrified. I forgot about the allergy. Plus, she's on her period and can't handle the cold. She's out there working for me, I can't just let her get hurt."

On her period.

My mind violently flashed back to a winter night three years ago. I had severe cramps and a 102-degree fever. I stumbled in the kitchen and accidentally brushed his fingers while handing him a glass. He grabbed a pitcher of ice water and dumped it over my head. Then he locked himself in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands with a steel brush until they bled, dry-heaving the entire time.

I suddenly thought of the little boy who had risked everything to save me from drowning all those years ago. The contrast broke me. I couldn't hold it back anymore.

"But Ethan," I forced the words out, staring at his back. "You know I can't swim. Weren't you afraid I'd die?"

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. 

"I did the math. The rescue team was three minutes out. You might suffer a bit, but you wouldn't die." He didn't even look back, his tone annoyed. "I told you about my condition before we got married. You were the one who insisted on this wedding. What are you complaining about now?"

His phone buzzed. "I have a board meeting," he muttered, standing up. He walked out without looking back.

I ripped the IV out of my hand. Ignoring the blood dripping onto the floor, I dragged my aching body to the window. 

Down in the hospital courtyard, Ethan walked up to a bench. Lila was sitting there. Ethan crouched down. He took off her sneaker. With his bare hands, he gently massaged her sprained ankle. The look in his eyes was so tender it could melt ice. 

So much for the rare allergy. It only applies to the woman you don’t love. He wasn't sick. He just didn't love me...

I picked up my phone and dialed. 

"Adam? Prepare the divorce papers. I want out."