Model Wife's Secret Performances - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading Model Wife's Secret Performances, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of Model Wife's Secret Performances.
Sophia Laurent's phone was too clean.
Not a single suspicious message in her chat history with Isabella Flores. No red flags, no hidden clues—just the kind of pristine digital trail that set my teeth on edge.
Because the moment Isabella had texted her, another anonymous email had landed in my inbox.
The tipster's warning was chilling: Sophia had another performance scheduled for tomorrow.
If true, my wife's lies ran deeper than I'd ever imagined.
I tried to reason with myself—trust her, don't let these poison-tipped emails wreck what we've built. But doubt, once planted, spread like wildfire.
I took a sharp breath and clenched my fists.
This is it. Her last chance. My final test.
If she proved honest today, I'd bury the past. No more obsessing, no more feeding my paranoia. We'd start fresh—rebuild our marriage, leave the shadows behind.
At dawn, Sophia moved through the kitchen with quiet hesitation, replaying last night's argument about Isabella's blind date.
"Go ahead," I said, forcing a smile. "I overreacted. As long as your heart's mine, I won't cage you like some trophy."
Her eyes shimmered as she kissed my cheek. "Not just my heart. Everything I am is yours."
By noon, I waved her off with practiced cheer, then immediately checked the tracking app I'd hidden on her phone.
The destination? Le Jardin Secret.
An exclusive, members-only restaurant—Isabella's matchmaking venue.
I tailed her in a cab, binoculars in hand, watching from a hidden vantage point. Sophia and Isabella sat inside, chatting animatedly. Then he arrived—a greasy, heavyset man in his mid-thirties.
At first, I thought he was just another creep hitting on them.
But no. He sat across from Isabella, grinning like a fool while Sophia offered polite smiles.
This was Isabella's so-called billionaire catch? The same woman who sneered at my "mediocre looks" for daring to marry Sophia? What kind of magic did this slob have?
Still, seeing an actual blind date eased the knot in my chest—until all three headed toward the private garden.
Alarm shot through me. I bolted after them, only to be blocked by stone-faced bouncers threatening to call the cops.
Then—my phone buzzed.
Sophia. Video call.
My pulse spiked. Answer or ignore?
After a beat, I covered the camera and accepted.
"Sweetheart!" Sophia's face lit up the screen. "We're feasting here with Isabella's date! The food's incredible—we'll head back together soon!"
The camera panned to a lavish spread in their VIP room.
Isabella's voice teased from off-screen: "So dutiful! Reporting in before the interrogation! You should join us!"
Relief crashed over me, followed by gut-churning shame.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stammered an excuse—already eating takeout at home—and hung up before they could spot my surroundings.
Sophia even shared her location, asking me to pick her up later.
Guilt twisted deeper. After such openness, how could I still doubt her? Was I really this broken?
Chastened, I went home first, then returned on time to Le Jardin Secret.
Nearly two hours later, the trio emerged laughing. Sophia rushed to me, glowing.
The obese man extended a hand. "Theodore Blanchet. Your wife's a vision—lucky man!"
His voice hit me like a live wire.
Recognition burned through me.
Him.
Rage turned my vision red.
Shoving Sophia aside, I drove my fist into Theodore's face with a sickening crack.
Not a single suspicious message in her chat history with Isabella Flores. No red flags, no hidden clues—just the kind of pristine digital trail that set my teeth on edge.
Because the moment Isabella had texted her, another anonymous email had landed in my inbox.
The tipster's warning was chilling: Sophia had another performance scheduled for tomorrow.
If true, my wife's lies ran deeper than I'd ever imagined.
I tried to reason with myself—trust her, don't let these poison-tipped emails wreck what we've built. But doubt, once planted, spread like wildfire.
I took a sharp breath and clenched my fists.
This is it. Her last chance. My final test.
If she proved honest today, I'd bury the past. No more obsessing, no more feeding my paranoia. We'd start fresh—rebuild our marriage, leave the shadows behind.
At dawn, Sophia moved through the kitchen with quiet hesitation, replaying last night's argument about Isabella's blind date.
"Go ahead," I said, forcing a smile. "I overreacted. As long as your heart's mine, I won't cage you like some trophy."
Her eyes shimmered as she kissed my cheek. "Not just my heart. Everything I am is yours."
By noon, I waved her off with practiced cheer, then immediately checked the tracking app I'd hidden on her phone.
The destination? Le Jardin Secret.
An exclusive, members-only restaurant—Isabella's matchmaking venue.
I tailed her in a cab, binoculars in hand, watching from a hidden vantage point. Sophia and Isabella sat inside, chatting animatedly. Then he arrived—a greasy, heavyset man in his mid-thirties.
At first, I thought he was just another creep hitting on them.
But no. He sat across from Isabella, grinning like a fool while Sophia offered polite smiles.
This was Isabella's so-called billionaire catch? The same woman who sneered at my "mediocre looks" for daring to marry Sophia? What kind of magic did this slob have?
Still, seeing an actual blind date eased the knot in my chest—until all three headed toward the private garden.
Alarm shot through me. I bolted after them, only to be blocked by stone-faced bouncers threatening to call the cops.
Then—my phone buzzed.
Sophia. Video call.
My pulse spiked. Answer or ignore?
After a beat, I covered the camera and accepted.
"Sweetheart!" Sophia's face lit up the screen. "We're feasting here with Isabella's date! The food's incredible—we'll head back together soon!"
The camera panned to a lavish spread in their VIP room.
Isabella's voice teased from off-screen: "So dutiful! Reporting in before the interrogation! You should join us!"
Relief crashed over me, followed by gut-churning shame.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stammered an excuse—already eating takeout at home—and hung up before they could spot my surroundings.
Sophia even shared her location, asking me to pick her up later.
Guilt twisted deeper. After such openness, how could I still doubt her? Was I really this broken?
Chastened, I went home first, then returned on time to Le Jardin Secret.
Nearly two hours later, the trio emerged laughing. Sophia rushed to me, glowing.
The obese man extended a hand. "Theodore Blanchet. Your wife's a vision—lucky man!"
His voice hit me like a live wire.
Recognition burned through me.
Him.
Rage turned my vision red.
Shoving Sophia aside, I drove my fist into Theodore's face with a sickening crack.
End of Model Wife's Secret Performances Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to Model Wife's Secret Performances book page.