Gold Digger vs Gold Saver My Man's Double Life novel Chapter 32

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**Marriage Without Temperature by Mark Twain**

**Chapter 1**

Isn’t it peculiar how the triumph of my husband felt like my own personal defeat?

When Adrian found himself in dire straits, I didn’t hesitate to follow him into that dimly lit basement apartment. I took on three jobs each day, tirelessly working to help him claw his way back up the ladder of success. It was a struggle, but I believed in him, in us.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, success graced us with its presence. Adrian vowed to create a real home for us, a sanctuary filled with warmth and love. I was convinced that my long-awaited happiness had finally arrived.

Yet, just three years into our marriage, a chance discovery shattered that illusion. I stumbled upon the deed to our house, and as I read the name inscribed in the owner’s box, my heart sank.

“Owner: Victoria Sterling”—those words pierced through me like a dagger.

I pushed the property deed toward Adrian, my hands trembling slightly, as if I were afraid to touch the truth that lay before me.

His complexion drained of color, turning ghostly pale in an instant. He instinctively reached for the paper, but then halted, caught in a moment of realization.

“Elena, let me explain…”

His voice came out hoarse, and I could see his eyes quickly reddening—a sight I had come to recognize all too well. Whenever guilt crept into his heart, he would adopt this innocent, almost fragile expression. There was a time when I fell for it every single time, believing the facade he presented.

“Fine. I’m listening,” I replied, lifting my glass of water, my voice unnaturally calm, as if I were trying to suppress a storm brewing inside me.

Adrian’s gaze darted around the room, panic flickering in his eyes, as if my composed demeanor had thrown him off balance.

“Victoria… she’s had a rough time,” he stammered, struggling to articulate the words that felt like stones lodged in his throat.

“Back then, my parents opposed us and forcibly broke us apart. She fell into a deep depression, dropped out of school for a long time, and nearly destroyed herself completely.”

“So this house is compensation for her. Elena, this is what I owe her.”

I nodded slowly, feigning understanding, but inside, a tempest raged.

“And what about what you owe me?” I asked, my voice steady, yet laced with an edge that could cut glass.

Adrian froze, his expression blank, as though he couldn’t grasp the weight of my words.

I turned my gaze away, pulling out my phone to reveal a cherished photograph. It was a snapshot from our cramped basement apartment—barely ten square meters of despair.

In that image, a rickety folding table was completely covered with debt collection notices, reminders of our struggles. In the corner, his defeated silhouette loomed, a ghost from our desperate past.

“You’ve paid your debt to her with this house,” I said, my voice chillingly cold. “So tell me, Adrian Cross—when are you going to pay what you owe me?”

He looked down, his body trembling as if the weight of my accusation pressed down on him like a heavy fog.

The photograph seemed to drag him back through the corridors of our shared memories, where we fought side by side against the bitter winds of hardship. To help pay off the Cross family’s astronomical debts, I had sacrificed my stable job, juggling three jobs a day.

By day, I toiled at a design company, and by night, I drove, taking freelance projects on weekends, all while barely managing to steal four hours of sleep a night.