Model Wife's Secret Performances - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading Model Wife's Secret Performances, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of Model Wife's Secret Performances.
I lifted the hem of the short skirt, inspecting it under the light.
No handprint.
A shaky breath escaped me—just some creep trying to mess with my head.
I dug out those damn photos again, but they were useless. The model was slathered in body paint, her features blurred beyond recognition.
After tucking Sophia into bed, I chain-smoked on the couch until my throat burned.
First rule: don't let some shady photos shake my faith in my wife. Finding a woman like Sophia was a miracle—once trust cracked, it'd never fully heal.
Second: even if it was her in those shots... it had to be from before we met. She'd been an open book since our first date, quitting her job the second I asked.
Hell, everyone has skeletons in their closet. As long as she stayed mine now, I could live with her past.
I crushed my cigarette just as my phone pinged—another email.
"So, was your wife extra enthusiastic tonight?"
My thumbs flew across the screen: "Name your price, asshole."
The reply took forever.
"Haha, some guys get all the luck—I relieve your wife's stress AND leave you souvenirs. Tomorrow's show address attached. Enjoy the performance!"
Then radio silence.
This bastard wasn't after money—he was toying with me. I didn't sleep a wink.
Next morning, Sophia's voice cut through my fog: "Interview at Manhattan Arts Center!"
My blood turned to ice. That was the email's address.
I threw on a cap, shades, and mask, sprinting after her—but she vanished the second I hit the sidewalk.
"Manhattan Arts Center!" I barked at a cabbie.
The place was a nondescript office building with a line of men snaking around the block. No Sophia.
I offered the door guard a smoke. "What's the gig? Why only guys?"
He smirked. "Playing dumb? Pay $1,880 or beat it."
My mouth went dry. "What show?"
"Not hiring your type," he growled, shoving me. Another guard cracked his knuckles.
I forced a grin, slipping him cash. "Body art performance, right? First-timer jitters."
His grip loosened. "Money first."
Inside, the auditorium stank of sweat and cologne. Lights dimmed.
Women in Venetian masks glided onstage, sheer veils clinging to their curves—then peeling away with each hypnotic sway.
And there. Third from the left.
I'd recognize that silhouette blindfolded.
Sophia wasn't just a model.
She was the star performer.
No handprint.
A shaky breath escaped me—just some creep trying to mess with my head.
I dug out those damn photos again, but they were useless. The model was slathered in body paint, her features blurred beyond recognition.
After tucking Sophia into bed, I chain-smoked on the couch until my throat burned.
First rule: don't let some shady photos shake my faith in my wife. Finding a woman like Sophia was a miracle—once trust cracked, it'd never fully heal.
Second: even if it was her in those shots... it had to be from before we met. She'd been an open book since our first date, quitting her job the second I asked.
Hell, everyone has skeletons in their closet. As long as she stayed mine now, I could live with her past.
I crushed my cigarette just as my phone pinged—another email.
"So, was your wife extra enthusiastic tonight?"
My thumbs flew across the screen: "Name your price, asshole."
The reply took forever.
"Haha, some guys get all the luck—I relieve your wife's stress AND leave you souvenirs. Tomorrow's show address attached. Enjoy the performance!"
Then radio silence.
This bastard wasn't after money—he was toying with me. I didn't sleep a wink.
Next morning, Sophia's voice cut through my fog: "Interview at Manhattan Arts Center!"
My blood turned to ice. That was the email's address.
I threw on a cap, shades, and mask, sprinting after her—but she vanished the second I hit the sidewalk.
"Manhattan Arts Center!" I barked at a cabbie.
The place was a nondescript office building with a line of men snaking around the block. No Sophia.
I offered the door guard a smoke. "What's the gig? Why only guys?"
He smirked. "Playing dumb? Pay $1,880 or beat it."
My mouth went dry. "What show?"
"Not hiring your type," he growled, shoving me. Another guard cracked his knuckles.
I forced a grin, slipping him cash. "Body art performance, right? First-timer jitters."
His grip loosened. "Money first."
Inside, the auditorium stank of sweat and cologne. Lights dimmed.
Women in Venetian masks glided onstage, sheer veils clinging to their curves—then peeling away with each hypnotic sway.
And there. Third from the left.
I'd recognize that silhouette blindfolded.
Sophia wasn't just a model.
She was the star performer.
End of Model Wife's Secret Performances Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Model Wife's Secret Performances book page.