My Latin Dancer Wife - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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Bianca Valentine's message hit my phone with a ping—a video attachment waiting to be opened.
The second I pressed play, my blood ran cold. There I was, tangled up with Lola Evans from last night in full HD glory. The footage was explicit, Lola's moans crystal clear through the speakers.
My hands started shaking. How the hell did Bianca get this?
The camera angle told the whole story—someone had filmed us without my knowledge.
Only Lola and I had been in that room. Unless...
The realization punched me in the gut. Lola had played me. That whole "leaky faucet" emergency? A setup.
But why? What was her endgame?
The evidence was undeniable. I couldn't talk my way out of this one.
"You're one to talk!" I spat, my voice raw with anger. "At least I didn't suck Kyle Roscente's dick behind my partner's back! You cheated first—this was just payback!"
Bianca's face twisted in genuine confusion. "What the hell are you talking about? I've never touched Kyle!"
Still playing innocent.
With a bitter laugh, I slammed my phone on the table, the damning video still playing. "Then explain this!"
Bianca studied the screen, then burst out laughing—a cold, humorless sound. "Open your eyes, dumbass. That's not even me. Check the timestamp—March 18th. My birthday. We spent the entire night binge-watching Stranger Things, remember?"
The color drained from my face.
I replayed the video, really looking this time.
She was right.
The date was two months ago—the night we'd stayed in, eating cake in our pajamas.
And the woman? Now that I looked closely, her curves were all wrong—too sharp where Bianca was soft.
I felt sick.
Blinded by rage, I'd missed everything. After the dressing room incident, I'd just assumed...
"Anything else?" Her voice could've frozen hell.
I had nothing. "Baby, I screwed up. This was a setup—Kyle's behind this, I know it!"
But Bianca's expression didn't change. She looked at me like I was a stranger.
Even her parents turned on me, their disapproval like a physical weight.
Under their collective glare, I signed the divorce papers—walking away with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Crashing in a shitty studio apartment, I tracked Lola down.
She sat in the bistro booth, stirring her cocktail like we were discussing the weather. "Don't look at me like that, Kevin. Kyle wanted Bianca. My choices were help him or lose my job."
My hands clenched into fists. "You destroyed my marriage. Got me thrown out with nothing. What happens when your husband sees those videos?"
She shrugged, unfazed. "We have an arrangement. He plays, I play. At his age? He's not trading me in anytime soon."
She wasn't wrong. The dating game wasn't kind to older men, money or not.
Lola took a slow sip, then dropped the bomb. "Honestly? You're better off. You really think Bianca's some angel? The whole ballet company knows she 'entertains' the director. This divorce was always the plan—house, car, promotion through Kyle. Smart girl."
My mouth went dry.
The second I pressed play, my blood ran cold. There I was, tangled up with Lola Evans from last night in full HD glory. The footage was explicit, Lola's moans crystal clear through the speakers.
My hands started shaking. How the hell did Bianca get this?
The camera angle told the whole story—someone had filmed us without my knowledge.
Only Lola and I had been in that room. Unless...
The realization punched me in the gut. Lola had played me. That whole "leaky faucet" emergency? A setup.
But why? What was her endgame?
The evidence was undeniable. I couldn't talk my way out of this one.
"You're one to talk!" I spat, my voice raw with anger. "At least I didn't suck Kyle Roscente's dick behind my partner's back! You cheated first—this was just payback!"
Bianca's face twisted in genuine confusion. "What the hell are you talking about? I've never touched Kyle!"
Still playing innocent.
With a bitter laugh, I slammed my phone on the table, the damning video still playing. "Then explain this!"
Bianca studied the screen, then burst out laughing—a cold, humorless sound. "Open your eyes, dumbass. That's not even me. Check the timestamp—March 18th. My birthday. We spent the entire night binge-watching Stranger Things, remember?"
The color drained from my face.
I replayed the video, really looking this time.
She was right.
The date was two months ago—the night we'd stayed in, eating cake in our pajamas.
And the woman? Now that I looked closely, her curves were all wrong—too sharp where Bianca was soft.
I felt sick.
Blinded by rage, I'd missed everything. After the dressing room incident, I'd just assumed...
"Anything else?" Her voice could've frozen hell.
I had nothing. "Baby, I screwed up. This was a setup—Kyle's behind this, I know it!"
But Bianca's expression didn't change. She looked at me like I was a stranger.
Even her parents turned on me, their disapproval like a physical weight.
Under their collective glare, I signed the divorce papers—walking away with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Crashing in a shitty studio apartment, I tracked Lola down.
She sat in the bistro booth, stirring her cocktail like we were discussing the weather. "Don't look at me like that, Kevin. Kyle wanted Bianca. My choices were help him or lose my job."
My hands clenched into fists. "You destroyed my marriage. Got me thrown out with nothing. What happens when your husband sees those videos?"
She shrugged, unfazed. "We have an arrangement. He plays, I play. At his age? He's not trading me in anytime soon."
She wasn't wrong. The dating game wasn't kind to older men, money or not.
Lola took a slow sip, then dropped the bomb. "Honestly? You're better off. You really think Bianca's some angel? The whole ballet company knows she 'entertains' the director. This divorce was always the plan—house, car, promotion through Kyle. Smart girl."
My mouth went dry.
End of My Latin Dancer Wife Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to My Latin Dancer Wife book page.