He Called Me Frigid, So I Divorced Him and Took His Fortune

Ever since our wedding night, my husband Jared had called me frigid. While other newlyweds couldn't keep their hands off each other, I froze up every time he touched me. I had to force myself through it, swallowing my own discomfort. Whenever Jared wanted it, he would glare at me and throw a fit. "You’re like a corpse in bed. You feel absolutely nothing!" "It’s because you’re too repressed. You’re mentally sick!" I ended up putting my career on hold, secretly going to see a therapist. Right before we were scheduled to start IVF, I went to the OBGYN for a checkup because of persistent abdominal pain. After reviewing my hormone panel, the doctor looked at me and said: "Your levels are perfectly normal. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you." I headed home with the medical report, excited to tell Jared the good news. But when I pushed the front door open, I saw a pair of red high heels sitting in the entryway. The bedroom door was slightly open, and the sound of laughter drifted out. Peeking through the crack, I saw Jared holding another woman in his arms, kissing her forehead. The tenderness on his face was lightyears away from the cold, sneering mask he always wore around me. I backed away into the living room, folded the hormone report, and slipped it into my bag. Then I opened my laptop and printed a divorce agreement. When Jared finally came out after sending the woman away, he saw the papers on the table. He froze for a second, then scoffed. "Fine. Let's do it. I’ve been sick of you anyway." I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I only said one word: "Sign." Jared picked up the pen, but his hand stopped when he reached the asset division section. He looked up at me, his eyes freezing cold. "Are you dreaming, Clara? I bought this house before we got married. What makes you think you get half of the equity?" I stood in the middle of the living room, my fingers tight around the hormone report in my bag. The sharp corners of the paper dug into my palm. Jared leaned back on the couch, crossing his legs. "I paid for all the household expenses. You're just a housewife. What right do you have to split my property?" I touched the folded divorce agreement inside my bag. "We paid the mortgage with marital funds after we got married. The paid-off portion and the appreciation are marital property." Jared stood up, glaring. "Who taught you that, Clara?" He scanned me up and down, a hint of suspicion in his eyes. "What have you been doing behind my back lately?" "Sign it." I kept my voice flat. He slammed the pen onto the glass table. It made a sharp, echoing crack. "Fine. If you want to play accountant, let’s do some math." He crossed his arms. "You haven’t made a single dime in the last three years. I supported you. I paid for your food, your clothes. And now you want to split my assets?" I almost wanted to laugh. Three years. For three years, I got up at six every morning to make him breakfast. I stayed up until midnight waiting for him to come home. I never let his dirty laundry sit overnight. His stomach was terrible, so I spent two years cooking strict organic meals and remedies to nurse him back to health. Every time he went on a business trip, I packed and folded every single item in his suitcase. So, in his eyes, all of that was worth absolutely nothing. "I didn't earn a salary, but I ran this household and took care of you," I said, speaking slowly and clearly. "If we had hired a full-time housekeeper, it would have cost at least three thousand dollars a month." "You think your little chores are worth three grand?" He sneered. "A cleaning lady could do everything you did in two hours." "Jared, I’m not going to argue with you." I took a deep breath and pushed the agreement back toward him. "Either sign it, or I'll see you in court." "Court?" He laughed as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world. "Do you have any idea how long a divorce lawsuit takes? The judge might not even grant it the first time. Can you afford to waste that kind of time?" He grabbed his jacket, threw it over his arm, and walked to the door to put on his shoes. "If you want to drag this out, be my guest." He slammed the door behind him. The apartment fell dead silent. I stood there, looking around the living room. I had decorated every corner of this place. We bought the couch right after our honeymoon. I had suggested a cheap fabric one, but he insisted on expensive leather. The flowers I bought last month were still sitting on the coffee table, dry and dead. Dried petals had fallen onto the glass, and no one had cleaned them up. Our wedding photo was still hanging on the wall. In the photo, I was smiling so happily in my white dress, holding his arm. Back then, I really thought he was my forever. We were set up by my mom. She said he had a great job, was handsome, and stable. After three dates, he confessed his love with a bouquet of red roses. I was twenty-seven. All my friends were getting married. My family was pressuring me, and I was panicking too. The first month of marriage was actually sweet. He took me to Hawaii for our honeymoon, took photos of me on the beach, and held my hand during sunset walks. But six months into the marriage, he used the word "frigid" on me for the first time.That word was like a thorn, embedding itself deep in my heart. I searched the internet endlessly, getting more terrified with every article I read. I asked him if he really thought there was something wrong with me. He just snorted and said, "Look in the mirror. You know the answer." A year into our marriage, he started pressuring me to have a baby. He said his college friends already had toddlers, and his mother kept asking. I agreed. We started trying. But after six months of trying, nothing happened. He screamed at me. "It’s all your fault! If you weren’t so damn tense every time, I wouldn’t be under this much pressure! If I were with anyone else, she’d be pregnant by now!" I stood in the corner of the room, my ears ringing. So, to him, I was just a broken incubator. I put my interior design projects on hold and handed my clients over to my colleagues. Then, I secretly booked an appointment with a therapist. The therapist asked me what was wrong. I sat there for a long time before I could finally choke out my story. She handed me a tissue and waited until I calmed down. "Clara, does your husband treat you well in daily life?" I froze. Well? I remembered how he had yelled at me for ten straight minutes that morning just because his shirt had a tiny crease. I replayed that memory in my head over and over. Finally, I said, "He... just has a bad temper sometimes." The therapist didn’t push. She taught me some relaxation techniques and asked me to track my emotions before our next session. I went back four times. I always sneaked out while Jared was at work, terrified he would find out. I was scared he would call me crazy, or tell me that therapy was a waste of money because I was hopeless anyway. During my fourth session, the therapist said something that shook me. "Clara, have you ever considered that your body freezing up is actually a defense mechanism against how your husband treats you?" I didn’t answer her. Because I had never looked at it from that angle. I had always blamed myself. I thought I was too repressed, too abnormal, and simply not good enough for him. But her words planted a seed in my mind. After that session, I paused the therapy. Because Jared demanded we start IVF. He said natural conception was too slow. He couldn't wait, and his mother couldn't wait either. Looking at his anxious face, a thought crossed my mind. If we have a baby, will he treat me better? So I agreed. Before IVF, there were endless tests. They drew seven vials of my blood, did ultrasounds, and ran hormone panels. The OBGYN, a warm woman in her fifties, reviewed my files from start to finish, then looked up at me. "Your levels are perfect, and your ovarian reserve is excellent. You are fully capable of getting pregnant naturally." She paused, looking straight into my eyes. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with you." On my way home, I kept thinking about how to break the news to him. I wanted to tell him that the doctor said I was fine, that we didn't need IVF, and we could just try naturally. I thought he would be happy. And if he was happy, maybe he would be nicer to me. But he was already cheating. I sat in the living room for hours. I opened the Notes app on my phone. It was filled with lists. When Jared’s allergy meds expired, when the utility bills were due, his parents' birthdays, and what gifts to buy them. For three years, there was not a single note about myself. I got up and walked into the master bedroom. The bed was a total mess. The pillows were on the floor, the duvet was tangled, and the sheets were wrinkled with unmistakable stains. Standing at the doorway, my stomach churned with intense disgust.I stripped the sheets, the duvet cover, and the pillowcases off the bed and shoved them into a trash bag. I threw everything out. Then I opened the closet and began packing my things. I didn't have many clothes. One medium suitcase was enough to fit everything. For three years, I barely bought anything for myself. Two-thirds of the closet was filled with his clothes. I dragged my suitcase into the guest bedroom. I wiped down the bed, put on fresh sheets, and hung my clothes up one by one. Once I was done, I sat on the small bed and texted my best friend, Jenna. I need a divorce lawyer. Do you know anyone good? She replied with a question mark within seconds. Then her call came through. I picked up, and her frantic voice blasted through the speaker. "What’s going on? Weren't you guys doing IVF? Why the sudden divorce?" I gave her a quick summary of what happened today. Silence stretched on the other end for three seconds, followed by a loud, angry curse. "That absolute bastard! You should have left him ages ago! I knew he was trash from day one." "Jenna," I interrupted her gently. "I just need a reliable lawyer." "I got you," Jenna said, her voice softening. "Clara... are you okay?" I gripped my phone, watching the sky outside turn dark. "I’m okay." In fact, I felt better than I had in the last three years. Jenna was incredibly efficient. She sent me a contact card that very evening. "This is Valerie," Jenna said in a voice memo. "One of my coworkers used her for a divorce. Her ex cheated and tried to hide his assets, and Valerie absolutely destroyed him in court." I saved the contact. Just as I was debating whether to call her tonight, I heard the front door open. Jared was back. His heavy footsteps echoed from the entryway and stopped in the living room. "Clara? Where's dinner?" I opened the guest room door and walked out. He had turned on the living room lights. He stood by the coffee table, staring at the empty dining table with a scowl. "You didn't even cook?" He smelled like alcohol, his face flushed. The stench of beer drifted over as he spoke. "There are leftovers in the fridge. Heat them up yourself," I said, turning back to my room. He let out a sharp laugh behind my back. "What, throwing a tantrum now? You think you have the right to play games with me?" I stopped. "Jared, I’m not playing games. I’m divorcing you." "And I told you, I'm not signing." He walked over to the couch, slumped down, and turned on the TV. "You're stuck with me. I'll drag this out until you rot." Looking at him sprawling on the couch, I felt a wave of absurdity. This man had brought another woman into our bed this afternoon. And now, he acted like nothing had happened, watching a football game and expecting me to cook for him. "Then I'll file a lawsuit," I said quietly. His hand on the remote froze. He turned to look at me. "A lawsuit? Do you know how long that takes? Six months, a year, maybe longer." He sneered, looking me up and down. "Besides, you're just a housewife. What do you know? How are you even going to hire a lawyer? Do you even know where the courthouse is?" "Clara, if you have any brains left, you'll sign an agreement giving up all the assets. I'll let you leave peacefully. Let's not make this ugly." Peacefully. Hearing those words from his mouth was the ultimate irony. "I don't care about peaceful," I said, looking him in the eye. "I am divorcing you. And I will fight for every single penny that is mine." His expression shifted, hardening. "What is wrong with you lately? You used to be submissive." What did I use to be like? I used to do whatever he said. I didn't dare to talk back, object, or make demands. If he raised his voice, I would hide under the blanket and cry all night. If he complained about my cooking, I would spend hours studying new recipes. If he said I wasn't good enough, I would desperately try to change. But no matter what I did, he was never satisfied. "People change." I walked back into the guest room and locked the door. He kicked the door hard from the outside, making a deafening bang. "Clara! Get out here!"I ignored him. A few minutes later, the TV volume blasted louder. I sat on the edge of the bed, opened Valerie’s contact card, and dialed. After three rings, a sharp, confident voice answered. "Hello, this is Valerie." Her tone instantly made me feel safe. "Hi, Valerie. My name is Clara. Jenna recommended you to me. I’d like to consult you about a divorce." "Hi, Clara. Jenna mentioned you," Valerie said. "Is it convenient for you to talk right now?" "Yes, it is." "Great. Let’s get a quick overview of the situation. Do you have any hard evidence of your husband's infidelity?" I gripped my phone, my eyes landing on the thin wooden door of the guest room. "Not yet." "That's fine," Valerie said calmly. "We can gather evidence slowly. Tell me about your marital assets first." I explained the situation with the house. "He made the down payment before the marriage, and the title is in his name. But we've been paying the mortgage together for three years." "Even if the mortgage payments came from his bank account, his income during the marriage is considered marital property." "Exactly," Valerie confirmed. "You are legally entitled to a split of the home equity gained during the marriage, plus the appreciation. Anything else?" "We have a car he bought in cash before the marriage. Our savings are small, maybe around twenty thousand dollars, all in his account." "Got it. I'm taking notes," Valerie said, the sound of her typing echoing through the line. "Clara, your husband refuses to sign a separation agreement, correct? He wants you to leave with nothing?" "Yes. He wants me cleaned out." Valerie let out a soft laugh. "Well, he's dreaming." For three years, no one had ever stood up for me like this. I blinked back my tears, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Valerie, what documents do I need to prepare?" "Marriage certificate, IDs, and his personal info if you have it. Also," she paused, "try to gather any evidence of his cheating. While infidelity doesn't dramatically change asset division under the law, it is incredibly powerful leverage during negotiations and mediation. Plus, it proves the marriage is irretrievably broken, which helps push the judge to grant the divorce quickly." "How do I collect it?" "Text messages, photos, audio, or video recordings. Just make sure you don't violate privacy laws. For example, a hidden camera in your own home is generally fine, but breaking into someone else's place to take photos is illegal." My own home. I looked around the small guest room. Jared never set foot in this room. "I understand." After hanging up, I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I could hear the faint murmur of the TV next door, and Jared occasionally shouting at the game. He was so comfortable. In the middle of the night, a sound woke me up. I was instantly alert. The noise came from the living room. Then, the master bedroom door clicked shut. I grabbed my phone. The screen lit up: 1:23 AM. I slipped out of bed barefoot and pressed my ear against the guest room door. The living room was quiet now, but muffled giggles were coming from the master bedroom.