Gold Digger vs Gold Saver My Man's Double Life novel Chapter 9

**Marriage Without Temperature by Mark Twain**

**Chapter 1**

“Where are the oranges?”

The clock struck eleven, and my husband finally stepped through the threshold, his hands conspicuously empty.

I was three months into my pregnancy, and for once, I felt a hunger gnawing at me, a craving that demanded satisfaction. He had promised me he would bring home a bag of my favorite oranges, those sweet, juicy gems that made everything feel right in the world.

But now? There was nothing but silence between us.

We stood there, locked in a moment that felt like an eternity, both of us processing the weight of unspoken words. It took him a few seconds to even comprehend the question I had posed.

“Oh, shoot! I completely blanked! Babe, I’m so sorry—I’ve been in surgery all day. My brain’s just fried.”

“I swear I’ll get them for you tomorrow!”

Honestly, I wasn’t even mad. I assured him it was okay, that I understood.

But as I turned to hang up his coat, my fingers brushed against something unexpected. A strawberry hair clip slipped out of his pocket and clattered onto the floor.

Callum’s face flushed crimson.

“Oh, that? It’s just… my junior resident is obsessed with that brand. She wouldn’t stop pestering me to grab one when I passed the store, so I just… picked it up.”

Here’s the kicker—I knew that store.

Right next to it was the fruit stand that sold those glorious oranges I craved.

In that moment, something inside me snapped.

I pivoted slowly, my voice eerily calm.

“I think we should get a divorce.”

Callum froze, his expression shifting from surprise to something colder, harder.

“What’s your reason?”

I tightened my grip on the hair clip, my knuckles white.

“You didn’t bring me oranges.”

“Are you serious right now?”

His face darkened in an instant, as if a storm had rolled in. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that spoke volumes about the headache I was apparently giving him.

“Sloane, you’re about to become a mother. When are you going to stop acting like a child?”

“Pregnant women are impossible. Fine, throw your tantrum. I’m not doing this.”

With an angry yank, he snatched the clip from my hand, grabbed his pillow, and stormed off to the study, leaving me standing there, heart pounding.

**Chapter 1**

I watched his retreating figure, a dull ache settling in my chest, persistent and heavy.

That night, an unsettling curiosity took hold of me, and I began to dig.

It didn’t take long to find her—Ivy Winters, Callum’s beloved junior resident.

Her Instagram was a shrine dedicated to him, filled with images that made my stomach churn.

[My mentor acts all cold, but he’s a softie. Complains about me every day, but still eats lunch with me without fail.]

Attached was a photo of Callum, his expression stoic, diligently eating the scraps of meat she had pushed off her plate.

Callum had always been adamant about food waste; he’d lecture me if I so much as picked out a piece of ginger from my meal.

But with Ivy? He was a different man entirely.

[Been so stressed lately I actually developed a breast lump. Thank God for my mentor.]

Attached was a photo of Callum performing a breast exam on her, a sight that twisted my insides.

The most recent post? Just a minute ago.

A screenshot of them on a video call, Ivy clad in a bunny girl outfit, her hips swaying playfully.

[Mentor got pissed off by some pregnant hag tonight, but I cheered him right up.]

My stomach plummeted.

So this was what he had been up to behind my back.

This was how close they had become.

The morning after, Callum had the day off.

He returned home early, a bag of oranges in hand—big, round, perfect specimens that seemed to mock my earlier cravings.

He peeled each one with meticulous care, arranging the slices on a plate before holding one up to my lips.

“I didn’t forget on purpose last night. I really was just overwhelmed,” he said, his eyes earnest.

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