The Auctioned Wife's Redemption

For five years, my husband Jackson controlled my life with extreme rules, all under the guise of his "severe mysophobia."

Every accidental touch meant hours on my knees, scrubbing marble with burning disinfectant, hands raw and bleeding.

I lived isolated, convinced I was a source of "contamination," perpetually seeking his nonexistent approval.

Then, a faint perfume on his collar, and a hidden conversation shattered my gilded delusion.

His "mysophobia" was a cruel lie, a charade to keep me in line while he entertained his mistress.