She Had Germaphobia—But Only for MeChapter 1 The Germaphobe's Double Standard
Mila Galloway claimed to have a severe phobia of germs. Specifically, my germs.
She forbade me from using the restroom in her office and banned me from leaving any personal items in her workspace. I accepted this as her eccentricity—until today.
When her little assistant, Ryan Delgado, spilled coffee on his clothes, Mila didn't hesitate. She ushered him into her private bathroom to shower. Worse, she opened her desk drawer and pulled out a fresh pair of men's boxers she kept specifically for him.
Cold rage spiked through me. I grabbed her wrist, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"You claim to be a germaphobe," I said, voice low. "Why is he allowed in there when I'm banned? You won't even kiss me because of 'hygiene,' yet you keep his underwear in your desk?"
Inside the bathroom, the water stopped. Ryan's voice drifted out, dripping with mockery. "Face it, David. Big Sister just loves me more than she loves you."
Mila ripped her hand from my grip. She didn't speak—just grabbed a sanitizing wipe and furiously scrubbed the spot where my skin had touched hers. Pure disgust on her face.
Without a word, she walked into the bathroom, chatting and laughing with Ryan as he dressed.
Something inside me snapped. Seven years of endurance shattered in a single moment.
I slid my wedding band off and tossed it into the trash with a decisive clank.
"Divorce." My tone was flat. "I'm done with a wife whose germaphobia is selective."
——
The laughter died. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
I turned to leave, hand on the doorknob, when the door swung open. A group of salespeople from a luxury boutique filed in, arms laden with bags.
"Mr. Weiss, good afternoon!" the lead associate chirped, oblivious. "Mrs. Weiss custom-ordered these shoes and suits for you personally. You're a lucky man—her devotion is the talk of our store."
"Indeed," another added, setting down a velvet box. "Mrs. Weiss was so particular. Insisted no one touch the items with bare hands. Said her husband dislikes others handling his belongings."
The irony tasted like ash.
I stared at the pile. In seven years, Mila had never bought me a gift. Not once. And the brand was flashy, gaudy—completely opposite to my taste.
These weren't for me. They never were.
On cue, Mila emerged from the bathroom, Ryan close behind.