My Sales Champion Wife's Secrets - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading My Sales Champion Wife's Secrets, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of My Sales Champion Wife's Secrets.
A naked woman knelt beside him, swaying her hips in a blatantly seductive rhythm that sent a surge of anger through me.
Thank God it wasn't my wife, Lillian Laurent—or Sophia Valentine, for that matter.
Then again, Lillian was too pure to ever debase herself like that.
Maybe they were just... stretching? A weird coincidence, nothing more.
Relief washed over me as I fired back, "Damian, have your fun, but don't let their husbands catch you. I'm not bailing your ass out this time."
"Fuck off. I'm buying their houses anyway," he shot back with a laugh. "Besides, these real estate agents? Their husbands are probably deadbeats. Why else would they be selling more than just property? Trust me, they're begging for it."
Curiosity got the better of me. "Why the hell are you buying so many properties?"
"Like I'd actually drop that kind of cash," he scoffed. "Just a few grand in deposits—chump change for a taste of these desperate housewives. Block 'em when I'm done."
"You're vile."
I wanted to throttle him.
Damian was a legend when it came to women. In all the years I'd known him, he'd racked up a body count in the quadruple digits—never the same girl twice.
"This is amateur hour," he chuckled. "Listen, I've got your back. There's a high-end property event at the Vienna Grand this weekend. I'll get you in—time to expand your horizons."
I frowned. "Why would I go? I'm not buying real estate."
"You're so goddamn naive. The properties are just the cover. After dark, it's a masquerade ball—clothes optional. Pick any agent, do whatever you want. Get it now?"
"I don't have to purchase anything?"
"Owner's a buddy. Guest list is no problem. But you have to show. I'll introduce you to some heavy hitters—land you a few contracts. Might just save that sinking factory of yours."
That got me.
The orgy meant nothing. The connections? Everything.
After my factory collapsed, I'd paid off every worker—but the bank still owned me over eight hundred grand. No amount of delivery shifts would dig me out. The only way back was rebuilding.
Forcing calm into my voice, I said, "Thanks, Damian. I'll be there."
"Don't sweat it. I'll add you to the group chat. Nothing but big wallets in there—they toss around opportunities like confetti. But keep your mouth shut. You're my plus-one. If this blows up, it's on me."
A QR code appeared.
Vienna Masquerade Night.
A $688 membership fee. For the factory's sake, I swallowed my pride and paid.
The chat exploded the second I joined.
"Meet Ling Ling Xu—Grand Realty's 'top performer.' Cute face, but zero meat on her. Listen to this bitch calling me Daddy after one round!"
A video loaded. Another agent.
The footage was filthy. She was pretty—sleek, runway-model looks—but the guy filming was a bloated slob, hands pawing at her like she was meat. His gut alone should've been a felony.
Watching it felt like seeing a rose crushed under a truck.
Money really did buy anything. No matter how ugly, some stunning woman would always spread her legs and beg for it.
"That's weak. Check out this elite-tier goddess. Word is she's got a smoking-hot friend—some guys have tagged them both!"
Another video popped up.
I clicked, ready for the show—but something twisted in my gut.
The longer I watched, the more I swore I recognized that "goddess."
Thank God it wasn't my wife, Lillian Laurent—or Sophia Valentine, for that matter.
Then again, Lillian was too pure to ever debase herself like that.
Maybe they were just... stretching? A weird coincidence, nothing more.
Relief washed over me as I fired back, "Damian, have your fun, but don't let their husbands catch you. I'm not bailing your ass out this time."
"Fuck off. I'm buying their houses anyway," he shot back with a laugh. "Besides, these real estate agents? Their husbands are probably deadbeats. Why else would they be selling more than just property? Trust me, they're begging for it."
Curiosity got the better of me. "Why the hell are you buying so many properties?"
"Like I'd actually drop that kind of cash," he scoffed. "Just a few grand in deposits—chump change for a taste of these desperate housewives. Block 'em when I'm done."
"You're vile."
I wanted to throttle him.
Damian was a legend when it came to women. In all the years I'd known him, he'd racked up a body count in the quadruple digits—never the same girl twice.
"This is amateur hour," he chuckled. "Listen, I've got your back. There's a high-end property event at the Vienna Grand this weekend. I'll get you in—time to expand your horizons."
I frowned. "Why would I go? I'm not buying real estate."
"You're so goddamn naive. The properties are just the cover. After dark, it's a masquerade ball—clothes optional. Pick any agent, do whatever you want. Get it now?"
"I don't have to purchase anything?"
"Owner's a buddy. Guest list is no problem. But you have to show. I'll introduce you to some heavy hitters—land you a few contracts. Might just save that sinking factory of yours."
That got me.
The orgy meant nothing. The connections? Everything.
After my factory collapsed, I'd paid off every worker—but the bank still owned me over eight hundred grand. No amount of delivery shifts would dig me out. The only way back was rebuilding.
Forcing calm into my voice, I said, "Thanks, Damian. I'll be there."
"Don't sweat it. I'll add you to the group chat. Nothing but big wallets in there—they toss around opportunities like confetti. But keep your mouth shut. You're my plus-one. If this blows up, it's on me."
A QR code appeared.
Vienna Masquerade Night.
A $688 membership fee. For the factory's sake, I swallowed my pride and paid.
The chat exploded the second I joined.
"Meet Ling Ling Xu—Grand Realty's 'top performer.' Cute face, but zero meat on her. Listen to this bitch calling me Daddy after one round!"
A video loaded. Another agent.
The footage was filthy. She was pretty—sleek, runway-model looks—but the guy filming was a bloated slob, hands pawing at her like she was meat. His gut alone should've been a felony.
Watching it felt like seeing a rose crushed under a truck.
Money really did buy anything. No matter how ugly, some stunning woman would always spread her legs and beg for it.
"That's weak. Check out this elite-tier goddess. Word is she's got a smoking-hot friend—some guys have tagged them both!"
Another video popped up.
I clicked, ready for the show—but something twisted in my gut.
The longer I watched, the more I swore I recognized that "goddess."
End of My Sales Champion Wife's Secrets Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to My Sales Champion Wife's Secrets book page.