Chapter 2: Cold War and Chicken Dreams

After starting a silent feud with Jinzhou, I couldn't sleep.

I opened my mouth to explain, but no words came out. What's so wrong with eating chicken breast?

Then it hit me. The Fu family is filthy rich—caviar, lobster, the works. Cheap chicken breast probably doesn't make the cut for them.

Just like me. When we got married for convenience seven years ago, I got nothing but side-eye. I'm the budget cut of meat in their eyes—soft, plain, unworthy.

Jinzhou was waiting for my response. I swallowed my pride and muttered, "Whatever."

Chapter 3: The Bathroom Incident

When the shower stopped, I sat up, nervous, and started texting my best friend to calm my jitters. Seven years into this marriage, Jinzhou still intimidates me. He's cold, calculated, and obsessed with rules. Even our "scheduled intimacy" is timed to the minute—no overtime.

He walked in, pajama buttons done up to the collar, and flicked off the light. "Ten o'clock. Bedtime."

I accidentally hit the speakerphone, and my friend's voice blared, "So, that chicken breast last night—big? Juicy? Tasty?"

Under Jinzhou's piercing stare, I whispered, "Huge, juicy, delicious. Let's eat it again soon. Night!" I hung up, scooting to the edge of the bed.

Jinzhou sat up, spine stiff. "How long have you been messing with that stuff?"

My friend's been on a fitness kick, cooking chicken breast whenever Jinzhou's out of town. I chose my words carefully. "Just when you're not around. Maybe three times a week."

"Where?" he demanded.

"Her place, sometimes out. Occasionally here, but I clean up—no mess, no smell. It won't disturb you. Are you… mad?"

His breathing grew heavy. "You're a Fu. This kind of thing is a big deal."

I grabbed my phone, dimmed the screen, and started googling chicken breast recipes. But the search pulled up… human pecs. Dry, glistening, all kinds. One image stopped me cold—it looked just like Jinzhou's chiseled frame, taut and firm, like a warm iron under my fingers.

My ears burned. The screen went dark.

In the darkness, Jinzhou's expressionless face stared back at me in the reflection. I flinched, but he was still turned away, breathing evenly, fast asleep.

I saved the photo, curled up, and drifted off. In my haze, someone gently stretched out my limbs. My forehead rested against something firm yet soft. I snuggled closer to the warmth, but a hand stopped me. A heavy breath tickled my ear. My hands flailed, landing on something squishy. A stress ball?

I sank deeper into sleep, dreaming of a chef serving two perfect chicken breasts—tender, plump, divine. But when I bit into one, it was tough as leather. "Refund!" I shouted. "This is awful! Tastes like my grandpa's old dish rag. Who'd serve this garbage?"

I rolled over, spitting in disgust. Somewhere, I heard stumbling footsteps and the shower running again.

Chapter 4: The Gym Encounter

Morning light flooded the room. Jinzhou's side of the bed was empty, his blanket folded with military precision, not a wrinkle in sight. Just like him—cold, perfect, and devoid of warmth.

My lips and hands ached, like I'd been gripping something all night. No marks, though. Weird.

My phone rang. It was my friend, Wanyi. "Ginger, I just saw your husband at the gym… with someone else. What's going on?"

I rushed over. Wanyi pointed to a private training room. Jinzhou, still in his tailored suit—my anniversary gift to him—stood out like a sore thumb next to a bubbly female trainer.

Wanyi whispered, "There's a ton of male trainers here, but he specifically requested Amy, the ‘hot' one. And he refused to change out of that suit. He's just watching her every move. Is he… okay? Your marriage still on ice?"

Ours is a marriage of convenience. He needed a wife; I wanted his looks and physique. Seven years of living with a 6'3" Adonis—pale skin, lean muscles, chiseled jaw—love was bound to creep in.

Through the one-way mirror, I watched Jinzhou sit, eyes locked on the trainer as she stretched. He snapped photos, took notes, even smiled faintly. Was he… admiring her?

When the session ended, Amy leaned in, panting. "Like this chest shape? Want more reference pics? Don't be shy—real men are direct. Women love that."

I wanted to storm in and demand why he wasn't looking at me. Am I not enough? Too small? But as he stepped out, I ducked behind a corner, heart crumpling.