Model Wife's Secret Performances - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading Model Wife's Secret Performances, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of Model Wife's Secret Performances.
The second I heard that slimy bastard's voice, my blood boiled.
There was no mistaking that greasy tone—it was the same creep who'd sat beside me during the "performance," the one who'd tried to steal Number Eight right from under me!
What the hell was this piece of trash doing anywhere near my wife?
Theodore Blanchet might have been built like a walrus, but he went down like a sack of potatoes when I shoved him.
Sophia and Isabella froze for half a second before the screaming started.
"Vincent, what the hell are you doing? Stop!"
"Have you lost your mind? Why are you attacking him?"
I ignored them, pinning Theodore to the ground and driving my fist into his face again and again.
"Creative body painting, huh? Trying to steal Number Eight, huh? And now you're sniffing around my wife—today, I'm gonna—"
Recognition flashed in his eyes. He knew exactly who I was.
But the bastard kept playing dumb, squirming under me. "You're insane! Sophia, is your husband psychotic?"
"He assaulted me! This isn't over!"
By then, Sophia and Isabella were clawing at me, trying to pull me off. A crowd gathered in seconds, and security rushed in. Somebody called the cops.
Outnumbered, I was finally yanked back by two beefy security guards.
Theodore wiped blood from his split lip as he staggered up. "Yeah, your wife's hot, but I wasn't here to hit on her. Are you paranoid or just batshit crazy?"
"If she's cheating, take it up with her! Why the hell jump me?"
Isabella shot me a venomous look. "No wonder Sophia's scared of you. You're violent—have you been beating her?"
That set me off.
I broke free from one guard and cracked my palm across Isabella's face.
"Stay the hell away from my wife, you poisonous bitch! You're the one ruining her!"
Isabella clutched her cheek, shaking with rage.
Sophia was sobbing now, begging me to stop while apologizing to Isabella and Theodore.
When the cops showed up, ready to haul me in, Sophia dropped to her knees in front of Isabella.
"Please, Isabella, I'm begging you—let this go! It's all a misunderstanding! I'll explain everything!"
Isabella sighed and yanked her up. "Fine, I won't press charges. But you need to leave him. He's unhinged—you'll never be safe with him."
With her pushing, Theodore backed down too, though he couldn't resist one last jab.
"Lucky for you this time. Next time, I'll bury you."
The whole damn crowd—even the cops—looked at me like I was the monster.
The injustice burned in my throat, but what could I say?
Should I announce to the world that my wife was a body art performer? That this bloated pig had watched her show and might've been trying to screw her today?
The drive home was dead silent, my knuckles white on the wheel.
Sophia's weak excuses barely registered. Rage took over, and I stomped on the gas.
She screamed. "Vincent, slow down! We're gonna crash—!"
For one dark second, I wanted it.
A wreck would bury all the filth. At least in death, we'd still be the perfect couple everyone envied.
"Vincent, please! I'm scared! What did I do? Why are you like this?"
I slammed the brakes. The car fishtailed, tires screeching, before jerking to a stop.
I turned to her, my voice dripping with venom. "You lied to me again. Right now, I could kill you."
Sophia went ghost-white.
"I—I didn't lie! We were just having dinner, you know that!"
With a cold laugh, I hurled my phone at her.
"Just dinner? Then explain this."
There was no mistaking that greasy tone—it was the same creep who'd sat beside me during the "performance," the one who'd tried to steal Number Eight right from under me!
What the hell was this piece of trash doing anywhere near my wife?
Theodore Blanchet might have been built like a walrus, but he went down like a sack of potatoes when I shoved him.
Sophia and Isabella froze for half a second before the screaming started.
"Vincent, what the hell are you doing? Stop!"
"Have you lost your mind? Why are you attacking him?"
I ignored them, pinning Theodore to the ground and driving my fist into his face again and again.
"Creative body painting, huh? Trying to steal Number Eight, huh? And now you're sniffing around my wife—today, I'm gonna—"
Recognition flashed in his eyes. He knew exactly who I was.
But the bastard kept playing dumb, squirming under me. "You're insane! Sophia, is your husband psychotic?"
"He assaulted me! This isn't over!"
By then, Sophia and Isabella were clawing at me, trying to pull me off. A crowd gathered in seconds, and security rushed in. Somebody called the cops.
Outnumbered, I was finally yanked back by two beefy security guards.
Theodore wiped blood from his split lip as he staggered up. "Yeah, your wife's hot, but I wasn't here to hit on her. Are you paranoid or just batshit crazy?"
"If she's cheating, take it up with her! Why the hell jump me?"
Isabella shot me a venomous look. "No wonder Sophia's scared of you. You're violent—have you been beating her?"
That set me off.
I broke free from one guard and cracked my palm across Isabella's face.
"Stay the hell away from my wife, you poisonous bitch! You're the one ruining her!"
Isabella clutched her cheek, shaking with rage.
Sophia was sobbing now, begging me to stop while apologizing to Isabella and Theodore.
When the cops showed up, ready to haul me in, Sophia dropped to her knees in front of Isabella.
"Please, Isabella, I'm begging you—let this go! It's all a misunderstanding! I'll explain everything!"
Isabella sighed and yanked her up. "Fine, I won't press charges. But you need to leave him. He's unhinged—you'll never be safe with him."
With her pushing, Theodore backed down too, though he couldn't resist one last jab.
"Lucky for you this time. Next time, I'll bury you."
The whole damn crowd—even the cops—looked at me like I was the monster.
The injustice burned in my throat, but what could I say?
Should I announce to the world that my wife was a body art performer? That this bloated pig had watched her show and might've been trying to screw her today?
The drive home was dead silent, my knuckles white on the wheel.
Sophia's weak excuses barely registered. Rage took over, and I stomped on the gas.
She screamed. "Vincent, slow down! We're gonna crash—!"
For one dark second, I wanted it.
A wreck would bury all the filth. At least in death, we'd still be the perfect couple everyone envied.
"Vincent, please! I'm scared! What did I do? Why are you like this?"
I slammed the brakes. The car fishtailed, tires screeching, before jerking to a stop.
I turned to her, my voice dripping with venom. "You lied to me again. Right now, I could kill you."
Sophia went ghost-white.
"I—I didn't lie! We were just having dinner, you know that!"
With a cold laugh, I hurled my phone at her.
"Just dinner? Then explain this."
End of Model Wife's Secret Performances Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to Model Wife's Secret Performances book page.