Model Wife's Secret Performances - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading Model Wife's Secret Performances, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of Model Wife's Secret Performances.
I shot up from my seat like a loaded spring, fists clenched so tight my knuckles cracked.
Every muscle in my body burned with the urge to storm that stage—to rip that damn mask off Sophia's face and demand the truth.
Why had she lied to me?
But the second I moved, security guards shifted like attack dogs, batons already in hand. Some guy yanked me back down by my elbow. "Whoa there, cowboy. Your turn comes later. Pull that shit now and they'll drag you out by your teeth."
I sucked in a ragged breath, forcing myself to stay put.
Blind rage wouldn't help me now. Without proof, without absolute certainty that masked woman was Sophia, I'd just get myself thrown into the street.
The guards relaxed as I sat, but that's when I noticed it—half the men in this godforsaken place were disguised just like me. Hats, sunglasses, cheap plastic masks. A sea of hidden faces.
The sweaty guy beside me let out a greasy chuckle. "First timer, huh? Don't sweat it—I was just as jumpy my first show." He leaned in, reeking of cheap whiskey. "But start trouble here? They'll carry you out in sections."
He pulled out his phone, recording the stage with a predator's grin. "Number two's got an ass that won't quit. Number five's legs go all the way to heaven. But number eight—" he whistled "—that's a goddamn Renaissance painting."
I snatched his phone.
Number eight was Sophia.
"Hey, what the hell?" He glared, then smirked. "Oh, you got a thing for her too? Tough luck, kid. She's mine tonight."
I tasted blood from biting my tongue. "What exactly happens up there?"
He rolled his eyes. "Christ, you're green. It's 'body art'—they paint the models. Classy shit."
Before he could elaborate, the host announced audience members would get to "collaborate" with the models—painting them live on stage.
"This isn't art. It's exploitation," I spat.
The guy sneered. "Then don't fight me for number eight."
It took everything not to break his nose.
When they called for volunteers, I was on my feet before the words left the host's mouth—claiming Sophia's number with a voice that didn't sound like mine.
This was my shot.
The guy behind me cursed, calling me a "holier-than-thou prick."
The host's grin turned wolfish. "Our guests clearly have... artistic passion." His voice dropped to a purr. "But remember, gentlemen—keep your brushes above the waist. If you 'accidentally' stir up a reaction..." He winked. "You'll be expected to handle the cleanup."
My hands shook like I'd been electrocuted.
To everyone else, I was just another horny idiot.
Only I knew the molten fury coursing through my veins.
When the host gave the signal, I went straight for Sophia. She hadn't recognized me yet, swaying with practiced seduction, waiting for my "artistic touch."
Around us, men were already pawing at models under the guise of painting them.
"Sophia," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Why the hell did you lie to me?"
She froze—then scrambled backward like a cornered animal. But I was faster. I tore off her mask with one vicious yank.
"You quit your job, remember? How long were you planning to play me for a fool?"
Her perfect makeup couldn't hide the terror in her eyes. "Please—you don't understand—"
Then—
A sledgehammer pain exploded across my skull.
The world went black.
Every muscle in my body burned with the urge to storm that stage—to rip that damn mask off Sophia's face and demand the truth.
Why had she lied to me?
But the second I moved, security guards shifted like attack dogs, batons already in hand. Some guy yanked me back down by my elbow. "Whoa there, cowboy. Your turn comes later. Pull that shit now and they'll drag you out by your teeth."
I sucked in a ragged breath, forcing myself to stay put.
Blind rage wouldn't help me now. Without proof, without absolute certainty that masked woman was Sophia, I'd just get myself thrown into the street.
The guards relaxed as I sat, but that's when I noticed it—half the men in this godforsaken place were disguised just like me. Hats, sunglasses, cheap plastic masks. A sea of hidden faces.
The sweaty guy beside me let out a greasy chuckle. "First timer, huh? Don't sweat it—I was just as jumpy my first show." He leaned in, reeking of cheap whiskey. "But start trouble here? They'll carry you out in sections."
He pulled out his phone, recording the stage with a predator's grin. "Number two's got an ass that won't quit. Number five's legs go all the way to heaven. But number eight—" he whistled "—that's a goddamn Renaissance painting."
I snatched his phone.
Number eight was Sophia.
"Hey, what the hell?" He glared, then smirked. "Oh, you got a thing for her too? Tough luck, kid. She's mine tonight."
I tasted blood from biting my tongue. "What exactly happens up there?"
He rolled his eyes. "Christ, you're green. It's 'body art'—they paint the models. Classy shit."
Before he could elaborate, the host announced audience members would get to "collaborate" with the models—painting them live on stage.
"This isn't art. It's exploitation," I spat.
The guy sneered. "Then don't fight me for number eight."
It took everything not to break his nose.
When they called for volunteers, I was on my feet before the words left the host's mouth—claiming Sophia's number with a voice that didn't sound like mine.
This was my shot.
The guy behind me cursed, calling me a "holier-than-thou prick."
The host's grin turned wolfish. "Our guests clearly have... artistic passion." His voice dropped to a purr. "But remember, gentlemen—keep your brushes above the waist. If you 'accidentally' stir up a reaction..." He winked. "You'll be expected to handle the cleanup."
My hands shook like I'd been electrocuted.
To everyone else, I was just another horny idiot.
Only I knew the molten fury coursing through my veins.
When the host gave the signal, I went straight for Sophia. She hadn't recognized me yet, swaying with practiced seduction, waiting for my "artistic touch."
Around us, men were already pawing at models under the guise of painting them.
"Sophia," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Why the hell did you lie to me?"
She froze—then scrambled backward like a cornered animal. But I was faster. I tore off her mask with one vicious yank.
"You quit your job, remember? How long were you planning to play me for a fool?"
Her perfect makeup couldn't hide the terror in her eyes. "Please—you don't understand—"
Then—
A sledgehammer pain exploded across my skull.
The world went black.
End of Model Wife's Secret Performances Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Model Wife's Secret Performances book page.