Model Wife's Secret Performances - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading Model Wife's Secret Performances, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of Model Wife's Secret Performances.
My finger hovered over the screen for a second before tapping play.
The video I'd secretly recorded that day—when I'd tailed Sophia to that damn body art show—blinked to life.
First came the performers, moving in that eerie synchronized way. Then the camera found her.
Sophia's face drained of color. Her hands shook like leaves in a storm. "Why?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Why keep this? I swore I'd never do anything like that again!"
She was unraveling right in front of me. "You promised we'd leave the past behind us. Was saving it just to throw it in my face?"
A choked sob escaped her. "I had no choice back then! I never cheated on you!"
Her nails dug into her palms. "If you can't handle my past, just say it. Why torture us both like this?"
I inhaled sharply.
"Maybe I could've moved on."
"But explain this—that slimy bastard who approached you earlier? What was he really after?"
The footage cut to the heavyset creep beside me.
Camera rolling, he was muttering filth—especially about "Number Eight"—like some starved animal.
"That voice. You know it. And his pinky—missing that joint. Even his damn phone case..."
The pieces fit. No denying it now.
Sophia's head whipped side to side. "No! That's—that's impossible!"
My fists clenched so tight my nails bit into flesh.
"What's the going rate these days? Since public shows are off the table, you do privates now?"
"Eighteen hundred? Twenty-eight? Thirty-eight?"
"Any random guy can pay to touch you, but I had to chase you for months? Spend a fortune to marry you?"
Sophia spun toward me, eyes blazing. "That's not what happened! I didn't know he—"
"Isabella didn't know either! She actually thought it was just a blind date. Had no clue what kind of monster Theodore was."
"I'm calling her right now—"
Her fingers fumbled for her phone. I snatched it and sent it flying out the window.
"Get out."
Tears streamed down her face. "Why won't you believe me? I'm innocent!"
The dam broke.
"Innocent or not, we're done."
"Out. Now."
One hard shove sent her stumbling onto the curb. The tires screeched as I peeled away.
Home. Phone buzzing nonstop—Sophia's name flashing a dozen times.
Messages flooded in. Photos. Pleas. Even Isabella's venomous texts calling me a spineless bastard who never deserved Sophia.
One final reply: "We need space. I'll file for divorce in a few days."
Phone off. Doors locked. Bottle after bottle until the world blurred.
Only blackout drunk could numb the storm inside.
Then—day three—pounding on my door.
Parents. And behind them, Sophia and Isabella.
Mom's voice cut like ice: "Vincent, enough. The truth came out."
"Theodore Blanchet's a con artist. Serial offender. Plays trust-fund baby to lure women, then vanishes."
I didn't look up. "Doesn't change anything. It's over."
Two days drowning in whiskey had shown me the truth—I'd never make peace with Sophia's past. I refused to live looking over my shoulder.
CRACK.
Mom's slap snapped my head sideways.
"Look at yourself. Disgraceful."
"Sophia's your wife. If you can't trust or protect your own woman, you're not half the man I raised."
"On your feet. I chose Sophia as my daughter-in-law. Try divorcing her, and I'll break both your legs myself."
The video I'd secretly recorded that day—when I'd tailed Sophia to that damn body art show—blinked to life.
First came the performers, moving in that eerie synchronized way. Then the camera found her.
Sophia's face drained of color. Her hands shook like leaves in a storm. "Why?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Why keep this? I swore I'd never do anything like that again!"
She was unraveling right in front of me. "You promised we'd leave the past behind us. Was saving it just to throw it in my face?"
A choked sob escaped her. "I had no choice back then! I never cheated on you!"
Her nails dug into her palms. "If you can't handle my past, just say it. Why torture us both like this?"
I inhaled sharply.
"Maybe I could've moved on."
"But explain this—that slimy bastard who approached you earlier? What was he really after?"
The footage cut to the heavyset creep beside me.
Camera rolling, he was muttering filth—especially about "Number Eight"—like some starved animal.
"That voice. You know it. And his pinky—missing that joint. Even his damn phone case..."
The pieces fit. No denying it now.
Sophia's head whipped side to side. "No! That's—that's impossible!"
My fists clenched so tight my nails bit into flesh.
"What's the going rate these days? Since public shows are off the table, you do privates now?"
"Eighteen hundred? Twenty-eight? Thirty-eight?"
"Any random guy can pay to touch you, but I had to chase you for months? Spend a fortune to marry you?"
Sophia spun toward me, eyes blazing. "That's not what happened! I didn't know he—"
"Isabella didn't know either! She actually thought it was just a blind date. Had no clue what kind of monster Theodore was."
"I'm calling her right now—"
Her fingers fumbled for her phone. I snatched it and sent it flying out the window.
"Get out."
Tears streamed down her face. "Why won't you believe me? I'm innocent!"
The dam broke.
"Innocent or not, we're done."
"Out. Now."
One hard shove sent her stumbling onto the curb. The tires screeched as I peeled away.
Home. Phone buzzing nonstop—Sophia's name flashing a dozen times.
Messages flooded in. Photos. Pleas. Even Isabella's venomous texts calling me a spineless bastard who never deserved Sophia.
One final reply: "We need space. I'll file for divorce in a few days."
Phone off. Doors locked. Bottle after bottle until the world blurred.
Only blackout drunk could numb the storm inside.
Then—day three—pounding on my door.
Parents. And behind them, Sophia and Isabella.
Mom's voice cut like ice: "Vincent, enough. The truth came out."
"Theodore Blanchet's a con artist. Serial offender. Plays trust-fund baby to lure women, then vanishes."
I didn't look up. "Doesn't change anything. It's over."
Two days drowning in whiskey had shown me the truth—I'd never make peace with Sophia's past. I refused to live looking over my shoulder.
CRACK.
Mom's slap snapped my head sideways.
"Look at yourself. Disgraceful."
"Sophia's your wife. If you can't trust or protect your own woman, you're not half the man I raised."
"On your feet. I chose Sophia as my daughter-in-law. Try divorcing her, and I'll break both your legs myself."
End of Model Wife's Secret Performances Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Model Wife's Secret Performances book page.