It struck him hardest when he caught sight of her suddenly, hurrying through the front door, back from one of her social gatherings, or emerging from the bath, her glorious auburn hair wrapped up in a towel. At those impromptu moments the depth and intensity of his love for her seized him with a pyscial force that could have been agony. But it wasn’t, any more than violent muscular contractions of an orgasm could be called pain. She was part of him. (p. 147)
This melodramatic, highly embellished depiction of love got old after the first few episodes. By the middle of the book, I was weary of how I’d imagine a Harlequin Romance to read. Mind-numbing banalities of a love affair involving a man who would murder, lie and cheat for self-advancement, while bringing his German wife away from her family of origin to live with him in Shanghai.
His love cannot protect his wife. He does not have the strength or character to be a father to his daughter. His lying heart served no purpose whatsoever for anyone, least of all for himself.
I was so disheartened.