My Desperate CEO Husband

"Lawrence! I have absolutely amazing news to tell you!"

I practically flew down the stairs, so excited I nearly kicked off my slippers. Lawrence stood at the kitchen island cutting fruit, and when he heard my voice, the knife in his hand suddenly froze mid-slice.

I almost missed this subtle movement, but four years of marriage had made me intimately familiar with my husband's every habit. Lawrence never paused while cutting—his knife work was usually as fluid as an art performance.

"What's got my CNN anchor so excited?" He turned around, wearing his usual gentle smile, but I caught the flicker in his eyes.

Looking at this 32-year-old mature man before me, I suddenly remembered how everyone said we were the reverse version of a "cradle-robbing" relationship when we first married four years ago. Twenty-one-year-old me marrying a Wall Street elite seven years my senior—back then, Lawrence would always say indulgently, "My little wife is still so young, with infinite possibilities."

Now I'm 25, no longer that naive college student, but Lawrence still looked at me with that protective gaze.

At least, he used to.

"The station assigned me a new partner! Guess who?" I excitedly wrapped my arms around his waist, completely immersed in the joy of good news. "Marcus Reynolds! That 26-year-old genius anchor, the star of Columbia Journalism School! He's not only criminally handsome but incredibly creative. We're going to co-host the evening special program together!"

The moment I finished speaking, I felt Lawrence's body instantly stiffen.

Like someone had hit the pause button, he froze completely for several seconds. Then I heard a subtle "clatter" behind me—the sound of the knife dropping onto the cutting board.

"Marcus...? Twenty-six?" He repeated this information, his voice half a tone lower than usual, carrying a strange inflection I'd never heard before.

I loosened my arms and stepped back to look at him. Lawrence's face had gone pale, his smile looking unnaturally rigid. That expression... like someone had just told him unpleasant news.

This was completely wrong.

Based on past experience, Lawrence would immediately launch into rapid-fire questions: What's the new partner's background? Work experience? Personality? What's the collaboration model? He might even half-jokingly say, "I need to check if this guy is worthy of my wife."

But now, he just stared blankly and repeated the age and name.

"Sounds... nice." He said slowly, his voice devoid of any warmth.

I blinked, wondering if I'd misheard something.

"Nice? That's it?" I asked tentatively. "Don't you want to know more? Like his professional capabilities, or our program plans?"

Lawrence picked up the knife again and began mechanically cutting the apple. Each cut was unusually forceful, making loud "thunk thunk thunk" sounds, as if he were venting some emotion.

"Good for you." He said without looking up. "You two... are similar in age, should have common ground."

Similar in age.

These four words made my heart skip a beat. Lawrence rarely mentioned our age gap, but now he suddenly emphasized that Marcus and I were "similar in age." This sounded more like he was convincing himself of something rather than talking to me.

I looked at him in confusion, trying to understand this abnormal behavior. When I looked at Lawrence again, I found him staring at the apple on the cutting board, but his eyes were completely unfocused, as if he were looking at something distant and painful.

An ominous feeling rose in my chest.

A week later, deep into the night, I tiredly pushed open the front door, my heels clicking crisply on the floor. Only the dim light from Lawrence's study illuminated the otherwise pitch-black living room.

Today's collaboration with Marcus was absolutely perfect! His proposal for the young Wall Street elite feature had me energized all evening. I couldn't wait to share this joy with Lawrence.

"Lawrence?" I knocked gently on the study door. "Still busy?"

"Mm." A response so brief it couldn't be briefer came from inside.

I pushed the door open. Lawrence sat at the massive wooden desk, his laptop screen casting cold white light. But I noticed a disturbing detail—the documents on the desk were all from a week ago, and his mouse cursor had been blinking in the same position for at least ten seconds.

He wasn't working at all. He was lost in thought.

"You know what? Marcus had a brilliant idea today!" I began enthusiastically. "He suggested we do in-depth interviews with young Wall Street elites, focusing on their investment philosophies and life perspectives. It's such a fresh angle—I think the ratings will be fantastic!"

"Mm."

That damn "mm" again.

"And he said we could start with you, since you're Wall Street's youngest M&A king..." My voice gradually faded because I realized Lawrence hadn't even glanced at me once.

This feeling of being completely ignored was so intense it made my chest tighten.

"I'm going to bed." Lawrence suddenly stood up, walking past me toward the door. "You should rest early too."

I stood frozen in the study, watching his silhouette disappear into the darkness. This man, who used to carefully inquire about every detail of my work, who would seriously listen to every complaint about my colleagues, who would prepare late-night snacks for me—now showed complete disinterest in anything I said.

What was more terrifying was that every time I mentioned Marcus, his reaction was abnormally cold.

Could it be...?

I shook my head, not daring to continue that speculation. But the unease in my heart grew like wildfire.

Weekend afternoon, I sat on the living room sofa organizing two weeks' worth of work materials, each proposal representing perfect coordination between Marcus and me. But looking at Lawrence across from me—wearing his gold-rimmed glasses, absorbed in his iPad—my sense of achievement instantly evaporated.

He wouldn't even look at me.

"Lawrence, I want to discuss something with you." I closed the folder, trying to keep my voice calm.

"What is it?" His gaze remained glued to the screen, his tone as flat as if he were handling work emails.

This feeling of being treated like air was suffocating. The old Lawrence would immediately put down everything and focus intently on what I had to say, even if I just wanted to complain about a slow elevator.

"Marcus suggested we go to Silicon Valley next month for a special report on tech finance, a week-long business trip." I said word by word, carefully observing his reaction. "He thinks it's important for my career development."

Lawrence's finger paused on the screen for a moment, but then continued scrolling.

"Sounds like you two work well together." His voice held no warmth, like he was evaluating an insignificant financial report.

You two work well together.

This sentence was like a sharp knife, precisely piercing the most vulnerable part of my heart. I instantly understood everything—every time I mentioned Marcus, this was Lawrence's reaction. Cold, distant, with an indefinable hostility.

"Aren't you worried about me traveling alone?" My voice began to tremble—this was my final test.

"You're not alone, aren't you going with your partner?"

BOOM!

This sentence completely destroyed my last shred of rationality. I shot to my feet, files scattering across the floor.

"Lawrence Wallace, what the hell is wrong with you?!" My voice echoed through the living room. "These two weeks you've shown complete disinterest in my work, you've turned a deaf ear to everything I say! You used to care if I was tired, you'd ask about my colleagues, you'd seriously listen to every complaint I had. And now? I feel like I'm talking to a wall!"

Lawrence finally looked up, removing his glasses. Those deep brown eyes looked at me, filled with complex emotions I couldn't read—like pain, like anger, mixed with an unsettling restraint.

"I just think you've grown up and don't need my excessive concern anymore." His voice sounded calm, but I could feel the turbulent undercurrent beneath.

"Grown up?" I laughed bitterly, tears beginning to blur my vision. "I'm your wife, Lawrence! I need your care and support, not this cold indifference!"

Lawrence fell silent for a few seconds, put his glasses back on, and returned his gaze to the iPad. This action was more cruel than any words.

"I'm not being cold. I'm just respecting your professional judgment."

I grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa and hurled it at him, but he easily dodged it.

"Lawrence Wallace, you explain this to me right now!"

But he had already stood up, walking toward the study without looking back.

"I have a meeting to prepare for. Excuse me."

SLAM!

The study door shut heavily, that sound echoing in my heart for a long time.

I stood alone in the living room scattered with documents, tears finally streaming down my face. Manhattan's sunset poured through the windows, painting everything golden, but my world was rapidly turning cold.

My husband, this man I had loved deeply for four years, was punishing me in a way I completely couldn't understand.

And I didn't even know what I had done wrong.