Wife's Bromance - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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Isabella Laurent had a standing appointment at Serenity Spa—daily therapeutic massages, she claimed.
Her massage therapist? None other than Daniel Evans—her so-called "bromance partner" from way back.
Ethan Sullivan never saw it coming.
One evening, Isabella was in the shower while I finished mopping the floors. As I loaded the laundry basket into the washing machine, something caught my eye—a pair of bright red men's briefs.
Definitely not mine. I wasn't the type to buy into zodiac superstitions, let alone wear red underwear for luck.
What really set off alarms? This was the only pair in the basket, freshly worn by Isabella.
Why the hell would my wife be wearing men's underwear?
A cold knot twisted in my gut. "Isabella," I called through the bathroom door, "since when do you wear men's boxers?"
The water shut off. "Oh, that?" Her voice was casual, too casual. "My pants got dirty at work. A coworker had a spare pair she bought for her husband. I borrowed them."
Bullshit. That explanation was way too smooth.
She stepped out, wiped off her makeup, and collapsed into bed, claiming exhaustion.
Call it instinct, but I couldn't shake the unease. When she dozed off, I grabbed her phone, unlocking it with her thumbprint.
Isabella was gorgeous—obsessed with fashion, gym routines, and spa treatments. Having a wife like that meant constant vigilance.
I scoured her call logs and WeChat—nothing outright incriminating. But then I saw it: her contacts were flooded with male names. And pinned at the top? "Bromance #1."
Their chat history was endless—morning greetings, random updates, inside jokes. Nothing overtly romantic, but the sheer frequency made my jaw clench.
A bromance? Please. I wasn't naive enough to buy that men and women could be "just friends."
A quick scroll through his Moments revealed the truth: Daniel Evans, massage therapist at Serenity Spa—where Isabella had a very active membership.
The underwear. The texts. The spa visits. It all clicked.
I memorized his employee ID, plotting my next move.
As a sales manager, I had an excuse to visit Serenity Spa myself. A few days later, I took a client there, pretending it was just business.
The place specialized in women's wellness—intimate massages, foot treatments, you name it—with a staff of both men and women.
I even called Isabella, testing her. "Hey, do you have a membership here?"
She lied without hesitation. "No, why?"
Not a word about Daniel.
That sealed it.
I didn't request him—didn't want to tip him off—but I spotted his photo on the staff wall. Young. Handsome. Smug.
The idea of his hands on my wife made my skin crawl.
Days passed with no smoking gun—until I came home early one afternoon.
From the bedroom, I heard Isabella's breathy moans, mixed with a man's voice—low, commanding.
"You're so bad," she whispered between gasps.
My blood turned to fire. I stormed toward the door—locked.
"Who is it?" Her voice was sharp with panic. The call cut off.
"Open the damn door!" I rattled the handle.
We never locked our bedroom. Why now?
"Hold on! I'm changing!"
Five minutes later, she swung the door open—still in the same clothes from that morning.
"Who were you talking to?" I demanded.
"Just Daniel. God, what's your problem?"
"I heard a man's voice."
"Because he is a man!" She rolled her eyes. "Are you hearing yourself?"
I scoffed. "Cut the crap. Bromance? That's a joke."
Her arms crossed. "Oh, so now I'm cheating? Daniel and I have been friends since high school—long before you showed up."
Daniel Evans. Of course.
"So I'm the villain here?" I snapped.
She turned away, fuming. "You take clients to spas all the time. Do I interrogate you? Why can't I have friends?"
"That's work! I tell you beforehand!"
A smirk. "Right. And I'm supposed to believe nothing ever happens?"
I had no words.
The fight escalated, then dissolved into icy silence.
That night, Isabella hurled my clothes and blankets into the hallway, banishing me to the guest room.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of our marriage—exhausted, furious, and utterly defeated.
Her massage therapist? None other than Daniel Evans—her so-called "bromance partner" from way back.
Ethan Sullivan never saw it coming.
One evening, Isabella was in the shower while I finished mopping the floors. As I loaded the laundry basket into the washing machine, something caught my eye—a pair of bright red men's briefs.
Definitely not mine. I wasn't the type to buy into zodiac superstitions, let alone wear red underwear for luck.
What really set off alarms? This was the only pair in the basket, freshly worn by Isabella.
Why the hell would my wife be wearing men's underwear?
A cold knot twisted in my gut. "Isabella," I called through the bathroom door, "since when do you wear men's boxers?"
The water shut off. "Oh, that?" Her voice was casual, too casual. "My pants got dirty at work. A coworker had a spare pair she bought for her husband. I borrowed them."
Bullshit. That explanation was way too smooth.
She stepped out, wiped off her makeup, and collapsed into bed, claiming exhaustion.
Call it instinct, but I couldn't shake the unease. When she dozed off, I grabbed her phone, unlocking it with her thumbprint.
Isabella was gorgeous—obsessed with fashion, gym routines, and spa treatments. Having a wife like that meant constant vigilance.
I scoured her call logs and WeChat—nothing outright incriminating. But then I saw it: her contacts were flooded with male names. And pinned at the top? "Bromance #1."
Their chat history was endless—morning greetings, random updates, inside jokes. Nothing overtly romantic, but the sheer frequency made my jaw clench.
A bromance? Please. I wasn't naive enough to buy that men and women could be "just friends."
A quick scroll through his Moments revealed the truth: Daniel Evans, massage therapist at Serenity Spa—where Isabella had a very active membership.
The underwear. The texts. The spa visits. It all clicked.
I memorized his employee ID, plotting my next move.
As a sales manager, I had an excuse to visit Serenity Spa myself. A few days later, I took a client there, pretending it was just business.
The place specialized in women's wellness—intimate massages, foot treatments, you name it—with a staff of both men and women.
I even called Isabella, testing her. "Hey, do you have a membership here?"
She lied without hesitation. "No, why?"
Not a word about Daniel.
That sealed it.
I didn't request him—didn't want to tip him off—but I spotted his photo on the staff wall. Young. Handsome. Smug.
The idea of his hands on my wife made my skin crawl.
Days passed with no smoking gun—until I came home early one afternoon.
From the bedroom, I heard Isabella's breathy moans, mixed with a man's voice—low, commanding.
"You're so bad," she whispered between gasps.
My blood turned to fire. I stormed toward the door—locked.
"Who is it?" Her voice was sharp with panic. The call cut off.
"Open the damn door!" I rattled the handle.
We never locked our bedroom. Why now?
"Hold on! I'm changing!"
Five minutes later, she swung the door open—still in the same clothes from that morning.
"Who were you talking to?" I demanded.
"Just Daniel. God, what's your problem?"
"I heard a man's voice."
"Because he is a man!" She rolled her eyes. "Are you hearing yourself?"
I scoffed. "Cut the crap. Bromance? That's a joke."
Her arms crossed. "Oh, so now I'm cheating? Daniel and I have been friends since high school—long before you showed up."
Daniel Evans. Of course.
"So I'm the villain here?" I snapped.
She turned away, fuming. "You take clients to spas all the time. Do I interrogate you? Why can't I have friends?"
"That's work! I tell you beforehand!"
A smirk. "Right. And I'm supposed to believe nothing ever happens?"
I had no words.
The fight escalated, then dissolved into icy silence.
That night, Isabella hurled my clothes and blankets into the hallway, banishing me to the guest room.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of our marriage—exhausted, furious, and utterly defeated.
End of Wife's Bromance Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Wife's Bromance book page.