Chapter 1

Seven PM. I kicked off my heels and shoved open the apartment door.

In the living room, Zachary sat rigidly on that gray sofa, his white coat neatly draped beside him, hands holding the New England Journal of Medicine like a living statue.

"I want a divorce."

I cut straight to the chase, my voice echoing in the empty living room.

Zachary didn't even lift an eyelid. His long fingers turned a page: "The contract term is one year. It's only been two weeks."

"Contract?!" My voice shot up an octave. "This isn't a marriage, Zachary! This is a roommate rental agreement!"

Only then did he slowly look up, those deep blue eyes as cold and sterile as operating room lights. "We just have different schedules."

"Different schedules?" I laughed bitterly, snatching the journal from his hands. "We don't even talk! Do you know which client I planned a party for yesterday? Do you know what food I hate most? You don't even know my middle name!"

"Sunniva Rae Peterson." Zachary stated my full name expressionlessly. "You planned a party for the Boston Symphony Orchestra's donors gala. You don't eat seafood—allergic to shellfish."

I was stunned.

"I read your medical history. Background check before marriage." Zachary took back his journal. "All that information was on your emergency contact form."

"Medical history? Background check?" I felt fire burning in my chest. "I'm not a checkmark on your resume, Zachary Palmer!"

Zachary closed the journal and finally faced me directly. That devastatingly handsome face showed no emotional fluctuation, as calm as announcing a surgical plan: "This is a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Arrangement!" I nearly screamed. "Listen to yourself! You sound like you're discussing a clinical trial protocol!"

My thoughts were instantly pulled back to two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago at Boston Common, afternoon sunlight slanting across the chess tables. I was accompanying my father, watching two old men play chess.

"Sunny, meet my friend's grandson." Father pointed to the man beside him. "Zachary Palmer, Chief of Cardiac Surgery at Mass General."

I was struck at first sight.

Not because of his handsomeness—though that face could indeed make any woman's heart race—but because he'd rushed here straight from surgery. His white coat sleeves were casually rolled up, revealing strong, elegant forearms, hands still bearing marks from freshly removed latex gloves.

That kind of forbidden yet deadly professional masculine charm made me fall instantly.

"I just saved a seven-year-old's life." He simply explained why he was late, his voice carrying that calm confidence that made my heart race.

"That's amazing." I heard my own voice trembling slightly.

"My daughter needs someone reliable." My father said to Zachary. "She's too... wild."

"My grandfather once said Professor Peterson's daughter was a wonderful girl." Zachary looked at me. "Perhaps we should get to know each other better."

Then came lightning-fast dating, proposal, registration.

Everything completed within a week, like a life-saving procedure in the ER.

But reality was another story entirely.

When I woke up at noon, he'd already finished his morning run, breakfast, and rounds. When I prepared to go out socializing at eleven PM, he was already in pajamas ready for rest.

We were like two people living in parallel universes.

"What do you think marriage is?" I demanded furiously. "Filing joint tax returns? Being arm candy at hospital gatherings?"

Zachary slowly stood up. I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the journal, jaw muscles tensing. He stared at me for several seconds, something struggling in those eyes, like making some crucial surgical decision.

Then he began rolling up his sleeves—that gesture that once made my heart flutter, but now only made me feel threatened. His tall frame instantly became oppressive.

"Maybe," he stepped toward me, his voice dangerously low, "we haven't truly gotten to know each other yet. How can we say we're incompatible?"

"Zachary..."

He pinned me against the wall, those usually calm eyes now burning with an emotion I'd never seen before. "We're legally married, Sunny."

Then he kissed me.

Not a gentle kiss, but aggressive, desperate, possessive. Just like in the operating room—precise yet dominant.

I was shocked by his sudden transformation. This usually ice-cold doctor was like a completely different person.

He lifted me and carried me to the sofa. Those scattered medical journals were swept to the floor with a rustling crash.

"Zachary, wait..."

But he was already covering me, those hands that usually wielded scalpels with precision now trembling as they unbuttoned my clothes. I could feel his ragged breathing on my face and the violent rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Zachary..." I tried to speak, but his kiss silenced me.

His technique was clumsy. Those hands, steady as rock in surgery, were actually trembling. Fingers that could perform the most complex cardiac procedures with precision now fumbled awkwardly with a simple button, like a teenage boy facing a real woman's body for the first time.

I reached to help him, and his face instantly flushed red as blood.

"I'm sorry..." His voice was hoarse.

"Shh, it's okay." I gently touched his face, feeling the tension in his muscles.

But when everything truly began, I knew something was wrong. His movements were mechanical and rushed, like executing a surgical procedure—no foreplay, no gentle exploration, not even checking if I was ready.

I bit my lip, enduring the discomfort, watching him with eyes tightly shut, sweat beading on his forehead, his entire body taut as a drawn bow.

Then, less than three minutes later, he suddenly tensed, letting out a suppressed moan.

Just like that... it was over.

Zachary breathed heavily, opening his eyes to look at me. Those deep blue eyes were filled with mortification and panic.

"Sunny, I..."

I pushed him away, feeling various discomforts throughout my body, not to mention any pleasure. My hands trembled as I straightened my clothes—not from passion, but from anger and disappointment: "This is your idea of 'getting to know each other'? Less than three minutes!"

"I... I rarely..." Zachary sat up from the sofa, that face usually full of authority now flushed red. "This kind of situation..."

"Exactly!" I shook my head in disappointment. "You treat everything like a medical procedure, including sex! Just like your surgical protocols—efficient but emotionless!"

I stood up abruptly, looking at this man who could work twelve hours straight in surgery saving lives but couldn't maintain basic intimacy in bed.

"We're finished, Zachary. Completely finished."

I rushed toward the bedroom, slamming the door hard. The lock's click echoed through the apartment.

Through the crack in the door, I could hear the sound of pages turning in the living room, then footsteps—he was collecting those scattered medical journals. Soon, everything fell silent.

I slid down against the door, hearing him quietly walk toward the study. It seemed he'd sleep there tonight.

Fine. At least we wouldn't have to face each other.

I checked my phone—three party planning meetings tomorrow and final confirmation for a rooftop event the day after tomorrow. Maybe staying busy would keep me from thinking about this mess.

I heard keyboard clicking from the study next door—probably he was handling medical cases as well. We were both escaping into our respective work worlds.

Our contract marriage had only begun two weeks ago, yet we'd already found the perfect cold war mode—busy enough to avoid all communication.

But somehow, thinking of his trembling hands and the panic in his eyes earlier, I felt something complicated stirring in my heart.

Maybe neither of us was good at this thing called "marriage."