My Latin Dancer Wife - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
You are reading My Latin Dancer Wife, Chapter 5: Chapter 5. Read more chapters of My Latin Dancer Wife.
I waited forever outside that damn dressing room, but Bianca never showed. Instead, Drake Langley came out looking like a damn peacekeeper. "Kevin, man, you're being reckless," he said with that patronizing sigh of his. "Bianca and the others have a banquet tonight. She won't be out for hours. Just... go home, okay?"
I hadn't called him out earlier, and he knew he owed me for that.
"Keep an eye on my wife," I growled. "Call me if anything happens."
I was too pissed to wait around any longer. Bianca had crossed a line today—one I didn't think she'd ever dare to.
By the time she stumbled through the front door late that night, I'd burned through half a pack of cigarettes. She was drunk, cheeks flushed, her dress clinging to her like she'd just come from another man's bed. When she saw me sitting there in the dark, she didn't even flinch—just walked right past me like I was furniture.
That was it. I was on my feet in an instant, blocking her path to the bedroom. "What the hell happened in that dressing room?" I demanded. "Were you and Kyle Roscente in there together?"
Bianca rolled her eyes like I was some pathetic, jealous husband. "God, Kevin, are you serious? In your head, I'm just some cheap slut, right? Fine! Believe whatever you want!"
My hands clenched. "So you're admitting it?"
"Admitting what? Jesus, you're delusional." She shoved past me, her voice dripping with disgust. "I'm done. We need space."
A minute later, she stormed out of the bedroom dragging a suitcase behind her.
I blocked the front door. "Bianca, what the hell? You're leaving? You want a divorce now?"
"Do whatever you want," she spat. "If divorce is what you're after, then sign the papers!"
The door slammed so hard the walls shook.
I sank onto the couch, my head in my hands. I loved her—God, I loved her—but the image of her in that dressing room with Kyle wouldn't leave me.
The next two days crawled by with no word from her.
Her father finally called, his tone careful. "You two had a fight?" He gave me the usual spiel about patience, about giving her time to cool off at their place. At least I knew where she was.
Then, after work, I ran into the new neighbor moving in.
Lola Evans.
She was struggling with a mountain of bags, sweat glistening on her skin, her thin blouse sticking to every curve. And yeah, I'll admit it—Lola had a body that put Bianca's to shame. Fuller, longer legs, the kind of figure that turned heads.
But then I remembered that video of her with Drake, and suddenly, helping her carry boxes felt like a bad idea. I made up some excuse and bolted.
That night, I was debating whether to swallow my pride and call Bianca when a new message popped up.
A friend request.
From Kyle Roscente.
The second I accepted, his voice message blasted through my phone, smug and taunting:
"Hey, Kevin. Guess what? Your wife's been warming me up before every show. Comes to my hotel room too—says she needs to 'relax.' Man, she's something else. I've had dancers, models, but Bianca? Softest body I've ever touched. Those legs over my shoulders? Unreal." He laughed, the sound like a knife twisting. "Bet that burns, huh?"
Before I could respond, another notification.
A video.
I tapped it.
Hotel room. Dim lighting.
And there was Bianca, sprawled across the bed in her Latin dress, eyes glazed like she'd been drinking.
I hadn't called him out earlier, and he knew he owed me for that.
"Keep an eye on my wife," I growled. "Call me if anything happens."
I was too pissed to wait around any longer. Bianca had crossed a line today—one I didn't think she'd ever dare to.
By the time she stumbled through the front door late that night, I'd burned through half a pack of cigarettes. She was drunk, cheeks flushed, her dress clinging to her like she'd just come from another man's bed. When she saw me sitting there in the dark, she didn't even flinch—just walked right past me like I was furniture.
That was it. I was on my feet in an instant, blocking her path to the bedroom. "What the hell happened in that dressing room?" I demanded. "Were you and Kyle Roscente in there together?"
Bianca rolled her eyes like I was some pathetic, jealous husband. "God, Kevin, are you serious? In your head, I'm just some cheap slut, right? Fine! Believe whatever you want!"
My hands clenched. "So you're admitting it?"
"Admitting what? Jesus, you're delusional." She shoved past me, her voice dripping with disgust. "I'm done. We need space."
A minute later, she stormed out of the bedroom dragging a suitcase behind her.
I blocked the front door. "Bianca, what the hell? You're leaving? You want a divorce now?"
"Do whatever you want," she spat. "If divorce is what you're after, then sign the papers!"
The door slammed so hard the walls shook.
I sank onto the couch, my head in my hands. I loved her—God, I loved her—but the image of her in that dressing room with Kyle wouldn't leave me.
The next two days crawled by with no word from her.
Her father finally called, his tone careful. "You two had a fight?" He gave me the usual spiel about patience, about giving her time to cool off at their place. At least I knew where she was.
Then, after work, I ran into the new neighbor moving in.
Lola Evans.
She was struggling with a mountain of bags, sweat glistening on her skin, her thin blouse sticking to every curve. And yeah, I'll admit it—Lola had a body that put Bianca's to shame. Fuller, longer legs, the kind of figure that turned heads.
But then I remembered that video of her with Drake, and suddenly, helping her carry boxes felt like a bad idea. I made up some excuse and bolted.
That night, I was debating whether to swallow my pride and call Bianca when a new message popped up.
A friend request.
From Kyle Roscente.
The second I accepted, his voice message blasted through my phone, smug and taunting:
"Hey, Kevin. Guess what? Your wife's been warming me up before every show. Comes to my hotel room too—says she needs to 'relax.' Man, she's something else. I've had dancers, models, but Bianca? Softest body I've ever touched. Those legs over my shoulders? Unreal." He laughed, the sound like a knife twisting. "Bet that burns, huh?"
Before I could respond, another notification.
A video.
I tapped it.
Hotel room. Dim lighting.
And there was Bianca, sprawled across the bed in her Latin dress, eyes glazed like she'd been drinking.
End of My Latin Dancer Wife Chapter 5. Continue reading Chapter 6 or return to My Latin Dancer Wife book page.