My Wife's Livestream Scandal - Chapter 13: Chapter 13
You are reading My Wife's Livestream Scandal, Chapter 13: Chapter 13. Read more chapters of My Wife's Livestream Scandal.
"Relax. I always keep my promises."
I couldn't help but smirk.
Over late-night drinks, Sophia downed two beers. Not wasted, but definitely feeling it—her cheeks flushed pink under the dim bar lights.
Funny how alcohol and darkness make people drop their defenses.
After the bar, the three of us hit a karaoke spot. My hand "accidentally" grazed Sophia's thigh—no resistance. Not even a flinch. Just a slow, knowing exhale.
Thanks to Vivian's not-so-subtle nudging, we ended up in a hotel room.
Pure adrenaline.
Every ounce of humiliation from being cheated on poured into that night. I took her relentlessly, until we collapsed in a sweaty, breathless heap.
And Sophia? She wasn't just willing—she was ravenous. Louder. Needier. Marco had left her starving in that empty bed for years, and now? Pathetic bastard couldn't satisfy her if he tried.
Once that door opened, it stayed wide fucking open.
She started showing up at my place every few days. No discretion. Hotels. Camping trips. My apartment—every surface became fair game. Kitchen counter? Check. Balcony? Absolutely. Shower? Oh, you bet.
But secrets have expiration dates.
Marco found out.
The calls started instantly—screaming, spitting curses through the phone. "Ethan, you backstabbing piece of shit! My WIFE? I'll gut you! Bury your whole bloodline!"
I laughed. "Funny. Wasn't it you who said cheating's just a 'moral gray area'? No legal consequences, right? Call the cops. I'll wait."
His own words tasted like poison coming back up.
"You're DEAD!"
Marco snapped.
Unlike me, he never learned control. Grabbed a kitchen knife, stormed my place like a deranged bull.
Too bad I wasn't home.
He hacked my door to splinters, trashed the place, and—oh, what's this? My "forgotten" laptop in the study? Ten grand down the drain with his fingerprints all over it.
From my office, I watched the security feed with a bourbon in hand and dialed 911.
Open-and-shut case: burglary, destruction of property, plus his little side hustle selling homemade porn. Slam dunk.
Add the $280K in damages? Minimum three years.
Perfect.
His family scrambled—returned the laptop, sent his uncle Richard Valentine (Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, big shot) to negotiate.
"You knew about your nephew's hospital antics, didn't you?" I leaned in. "Want to join him in a cell?"
Richard's face purpled. "Watch yourself, kid. This city's small. You'll need a favor someday."
I smirked. "Two years of botox-and-bribes money doesn't scare me. Push me, and I'll leave you divorced and bankrupt. Try me."
The color drained from his face. "You're insane." He bolted.
While Marco rotted in prison, I made sure to visit—with Sophia draped over me like a fur coat.
Behind the glass, I let my hand wander under her shirt, tracing her hip as Marco lost his mind. He smashed his fists against the partition until guards hauled him off.
Prison didn't calm him. Sophia later told me he attacked an inmate—extended his stay from three years to a solid decade. By release day? He'll be a walking corpse.
Sophia filed for divorce immediately.
As for us? We fucked like it was an Olympic sport. Every encounter was another nail in Marco's coffin.
Then Vivian came crawling back.
I didn't let her finish her sob story. "Get out."
Her face twisted. "This was always about Marco, wasn't it? You used me!"
"Took you long enough," I said, lighting a cigarette. "Leave before I make you. And Viv? Try revenge, and I'll leak those videos your brother doesn't know about."
She left shaking. Last I heard, her family married her off to some poor schmuck—another "nice guy" cleanup job.
Marriage? Hard pass.
Work your ass off just to get cheated on? No thanks.
I'll take freedom any day.
I couldn't help but smirk.
Over late-night drinks, Sophia downed two beers. Not wasted, but definitely feeling it—her cheeks flushed pink under the dim bar lights.
Funny how alcohol and darkness make people drop their defenses.
After the bar, the three of us hit a karaoke spot. My hand "accidentally" grazed Sophia's thigh—no resistance. Not even a flinch. Just a slow, knowing exhale.
Thanks to Vivian's not-so-subtle nudging, we ended up in a hotel room.
Pure adrenaline.
Every ounce of humiliation from being cheated on poured into that night. I took her relentlessly, until we collapsed in a sweaty, breathless heap.
And Sophia? She wasn't just willing—she was ravenous. Louder. Needier. Marco had left her starving in that empty bed for years, and now? Pathetic bastard couldn't satisfy her if he tried.
Once that door opened, it stayed wide fucking open.
She started showing up at my place every few days. No discretion. Hotels. Camping trips. My apartment—every surface became fair game. Kitchen counter? Check. Balcony? Absolutely. Shower? Oh, you bet.
But secrets have expiration dates.
Marco found out.
The calls started instantly—screaming, spitting curses through the phone. "Ethan, you backstabbing piece of shit! My WIFE? I'll gut you! Bury your whole bloodline!"
I laughed. "Funny. Wasn't it you who said cheating's just a 'moral gray area'? No legal consequences, right? Call the cops. I'll wait."
His own words tasted like poison coming back up.
"You're DEAD!"
Marco snapped.
Unlike me, he never learned control. Grabbed a kitchen knife, stormed my place like a deranged bull.
Too bad I wasn't home.
He hacked my door to splinters, trashed the place, and—oh, what's this? My "forgotten" laptop in the study? Ten grand down the drain with his fingerprints all over it.
From my office, I watched the security feed with a bourbon in hand and dialed 911.
Open-and-shut case: burglary, destruction of property, plus his little side hustle selling homemade porn. Slam dunk.
Add the $280K in damages? Minimum three years.
Perfect.
His family scrambled—returned the laptop, sent his uncle Richard Valentine (Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, big shot) to negotiate.
"You knew about your nephew's hospital antics, didn't you?" I leaned in. "Want to join him in a cell?"
Richard's face purpled. "Watch yourself, kid. This city's small. You'll need a favor someday."
I smirked. "Two years of botox-and-bribes money doesn't scare me. Push me, and I'll leave you divorced and bankrupt. Try me."
The color drained from his face. "You're insane." He bolted.
While Marco rotted in prison, I made sure to visit—with Sophia draped over me like a fur coat.
Behind the glass, I let my hand wander under her shirt, tracing her hip as Marco lost his mind. He smashed his fists against the partition until guards hauled him off.
Prison didn't calm him. Sophia later told me he attacked an inmate—extended his stay from three years to a solid decade. By release day? He'll be a walking corpse.
Sophia filed for divorce immediately.
As for us? We fucked like it was an Olympic sport. Every encounter was another nail in Marco's coffin.
Then Vivian came crawling back.
I didn't let her finish her sob story. "Get out."
Her face twisted. "This was always about Marco, wasn't it? You used me!"
"Took you long enough," I said, lighting a cigarette. "Leave before I make you. And Viv? Try revenge, and I'll leak those videos your brother doesn't know about."
She left shaking. Last I heard, her family married her off to some poor schmuck—another "nice guy" cleanup job.
Marriage? Hard pass.
Work your ass off just to get cheated on? No thanks.
I'll take freedom any day.
End of My Wife's Livestream Scandal Chapter 13. View all chapters or return to My Wife's Livestream Scandal book page.