Chapter 1: The Awkward Dinner Table

I was chatting with my best friend about chicken breast recipes when my husband, Jinzhou Fu, overheard us.

"Last night's chicken breast was huge, juicy, and practically melted in my mouth," I said, giggling over the phone.

Jinzhou's face darkened. "How long have you been into that kind of thing?" he asked, his voice icy.

I blinked, confused. "Uh, like three times a week?"

His cool, composed demeanor cracked, like he'd just made some big decision. "Tonight, I'll cook for you. No more eating out—it's not sanitary."

I got home starving, expecting a feast, but the dining table was empty. "Where's the food?" I asked.

His ears turned red as he slowly climbed onto the table and lay down. "Here," he said, voice low.

I froze, holding a piece of chicken breast I'd grabbed from the fridge. "What…?"

"You're addicted, Ginger," he snapped, cutting me off. He slid into bed, turning his back to me, rigid as a board.

We have a king-sized bed, but we each use our own blanket—strict boundaries, no crossing lines.

I tilted my head back, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. Whatever. If he wants a divorce, fine.

But I'm still eating my chicken.