Wife's Bromance - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
You are reading Wife's Bromance, Chapter 2: Chapter 2. Read more chapters of Wife's Bromance.
I met Isabella Laurent through a matchmaker. She was young, gorgeous, and a little too aware of it—but hey, I could live with that.
At first, she wasn't exactly into me. But her family? They were pushing for stability—someone dependable, with his life together. And that was me.
I had a house, a car, a steady job. My parents were retired teachers with pensions, so no financial drama looming over us. By all accounts, I was a safe bet.
Our second date was when things took a turn. After the movie, Isabella "forgot" her keys. Her parents were out of town visiting relatives, she said—nowhere to stay.
Guess where we ended up that night? A hotel. At her suggestion.
After that, marriage was just the next logical step. Her family wanted a $28,000 dowry and her name on the house deed. My parents agreed—as long as I was happy.
But I had my doubts.
That night at the hotel, I realized two things: Isabella wasn't a virgin, and she had a long, horizontal scar across her stomach.
I didn't bring it up—not then, not until after the wedding.
She claimed it was from an appendectomy. I wasn't entirely convinced, but I let it go. The past was the past, right? As long as she was committed to us, I wasn't going to dig.
But married life? Far from peaceful.
I used to be a middle school teacher—had my license and everything. It was my dream job, and my parents' pride.
Isabella hated it. "$4,000 a month? That's nothing," she'd scoff. She pushed me into sales, chasing those fat commission checks.
The money was better, sure. But the hours? Brutal. Late-night client dinners, endless drinks—my stomach was a wreck.
Strangely, Isabella didn't seem to mind me coming home late. Sometimes, she even got annoyed when I showed up "too early." Made me wonder if she preferred me gone.
At home, I did everything—laundry, mopping, dishes. By the time I finished, it was midnight, and she'd already washed off her makeup and passed out.
The only time she acted affectionate? Payday. Or when she wanted money for a new purse, makeup, or clothes.
Our sex life? Practically nonexistent. She turned me down more often than not.
No sex meant no kids.
Three years in, still no pregnancy—yet she told both our families I was the problem.
What could I say? How do you explain that to your parents?
We had a cold war for a week. I apologized over and over, but she stayed icy.
Then her mom's birthday rolled around. I handed over a fat red envelope—$8,888—and finally, she smiled.
That night, she "rewarded" me—but still kicked me out of the bedroom afterward.
"I've got insomnia," she said. "You'll just keep me up. Wait till I'm better."
What could I do? I slept on the couch.
Husband and wife—yet we couldn't even share a bed. Friends envied me for landing such a beautiful woman, but behind closed doors? I was miserable.
Then came Valentine's Day.
I went all out—fancy dinner reservation, roses, gifts, the whole nine yards. Left work early, stood in the mall holding flowers like some lovesick fool, waiting for her.
But her coworker told me she'd taken the day off.
I called her.
"Oh, babe! Sorry! I'm out with my bestie—we planned this forever ago. Think of it as your Valentine's Day off—don't stress about me!"
Her voice was light, careless. Like it was nothing.
"Bestie?" My gut twisted. In the background, I heard waves. "Which bestie?"
"Ugh, why the interrogation? Just a friend. Gotta go—we're busy!"
Click.
I called back. Straight to voicemail. Texts left on read.
I was gutted.
Instead of spending the day with me, she'd blown me off for her "bestie." The reservation, the roses—all wasted.
As I turned to leave, a voice stopped me.
"Hey—you're Isabella's husband, right?"
A stunning girl—one of Isabella's coworkers—stood there.
"Yeah. Can I help you?"
"I'm Sophia Anderson. We need to talk."
We found a quiet café, packed with couples on dates.
Sophia was breathtaking—flawless skin, sharp outfit, legs for days. She had this energy, this aliveness, that even Isabella didn't match.
Honestly, sitting with a stranger on Valentine's Day felt surreal.
"First, look at this."
She handed me her phone.
Isabella's social media feed filled the screen—photo after photo of her and some guy, Daniel Evans, her so-called "bromance partner."
Nine pictures. Laughing, posing, one where they fake-kissed behind a finger heart.
Then—a beach at sunset. Isabella in a bikini, pressed against him like they were a couple.
The caption:
"Valentine's Day—walking by the shore, feeling the breeze, but most of all, being with you. You're my happiness."
My hands shook.
On Valentine's Day, my wife wasn't with her husband.
She was cheating on me.
At first, she wasn't exactly into me. But her family? They were pushing for stability—someone dependable, with his life together. And that was me.
I had a house, a car, a steady job. My parents were retired teachers with pensions, so no financial drama looming over us. By all accounts, I was a safe bet.
Our second date was when things took a turn. After the movie, Isabella "forgot" her keys. Her parents were out of town visiting relatives, she said—nowhere to stay.
Guess where we ended up that night? A hotel. At her suggestion.
After that, marriage was just the next logical step. Her family wanted a $28,000 dowry and her name on the house deed. My parents agreed—as long as I was happy.
But I had my doubts.
That night at the hotel, I realized two things: Isabella wasn't a virgin, and she had a long, horizontal scar across her stomach.
I didn't bring it up—not then, not until after the wedding.
She claimed it was from an appendectomy. I wasn't entirely convinced, but I let it go. The past was the past, right? As long as she was committed to us, I wasn't going to dig.
But married life? Far from peaceful.
I used to be a middle school teacher—had my license and everything. It was my dream job, and my parents' pride.
Isabella hated it. "$4,000 a month? That's nothing," she'd scoff. She pushed me into sales, chasing those fat commission checks.
The money was better, sure. But the hours? Brutal. Late-night client dinners, endless drinks—my stomach was a wreck.
Strangely, Isabella didn't seem to mind me coming home late. Sometimes, she even got annoyed when I showed up "too early." Made me wonder if she preferred me gone.
At home, I did everything—laundry, mopping, dishes. By the time I finished, it was midnight, and she'd already washed off her makeup and passed out.
The only time she acted affectionate? Payday. Or when she wanted money for a new purse, makeup, or clothes.
Our sex life? Practically nonexistent. She turned me down more often than not.
No sex meant no kids.
Three years in, still no pregnancy—yet she told both our families I was the problem.
What could I say? How do you explain that to your parents?
We had a cold war for a week. I apologized over and over, but she stayed icy.
Then her mom's birthday rolled around. I handed over a fat red envelope—$8,888—and finally, she smiled.
That night, she "rewarded" me—but still kicked me out of the bedroom afterward.
"I've got insomnia," she said. "You'll just keep me up. Wait till I'm better."
What could I do? I slept on the couch.
Husband and wife—yet we couldn't even share a bed. Friends envied me for landing such a beautiful woman, but behind closed doors? I was miserable.
Then came Valentine's Day.
I went all out—fancy dinner reservation, roses, gifts, the whole nine yards. Left work early, stood in the mall holding flowers like some lovesick fool, waiting for her.
But her coworker told me she'd taken the day off.
I called her.
"Oh, babe! Sorry! I'm out with my bestie—we planned this forever ago. Think of it as your Valentine's Day off—don't stress about me!"
Her voice was light, careless. Like it was nothing.
"Bestie?" My gut twisted. In the background, I heard waves. "Which bestie?"
"Ugh, why the interrogation? Just a friend. Gotta go—we're busy!"
Click.
I called back. Straight to voicemail. Texts left on read.
I was gutted.
Instead of spending the day with me, she'd blown me off for her "bestie." The reservation, the roses—all wasted.
As I turned to leave, a voice stopped me.
"Hey—you're Isabella's husband, right?"
A stunning girl—one of Isabella's coworkers—stood there.
"Yeah. Can I help you?"
"I'm Sophia Anderson. We need to talk."
We found a quiet café, packed with couples on dates.
Sophia was breathtaking—flawless skin, sharp outfit, legs for days. She had this energy, this aliveness, that even Isabella didn't match.
Honestly, sitting with a stranger on Valentine's Day felt surreal.
"First, look at this."
She handed me her phone.
Isabella's social media feed filled the screen—photo after photo of her and some guy, Daniel Evans, her so-called "bromance partner."
Nine pictures. Laughing, posing, one where they fake-kissed behind a finger heart.
Then—a beach at sunset. Isabella in a bikini, pressed against him like they were a couple.
The caption:
"Valentine's Day—walking by the shore, feeling the breeze, but most of all, being with you. You're my happiness."
My hands shook.
On Valentine's Day, my wife wasn't with her husband.
She was cheating on me.
End of Wife's Bromance Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Wife's Bromance book page.