Wife's Bromance - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading Wife's Bromance, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of Wife's Bromance.
This wasn't some innocent "bromance." No one in their right mind would buy that they were just friends.
And to add insult to injury—she'd blocked me from her Moments. No wonder her feed had been a ghost town for me.
Then I found it—a post from days ago, showing Daniel's workplace: Serenity Spa.
But the real gut punch came as I kept scrolling.
Not a single photo of me. Just endless snaps with Daniel—even the most mundane moments, like sipping bubble tea together.
Anyone scrolling through would assume he was her husband.
"Daniel's a massage therapist at Serenity Spa," Sophia explained, stirring her coffee. "He picks her up after work—shopping, movies, dinners. At first, we all thought he was her boyfriend. Then we found out she was married."
My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice steady. "Why are you telling me this?"
Was she playing me?
Sophia took a slow sip, her smile razor-thin. "Oh, I do want revenge on your wife. But let's be clear—she brought this on herself. She framed me first."
And just like that, the truth spilled out.
Turns out, Sophia and Isabella had been rivals at the same cosmetics counter, their feud simmering for months.
Then, a while back, Sophia's boyfriend came to the mall to make up after a fight—only Isabella was the one who "helped." She casually dropped that she'd seen Sophia sneaking off to a hotel with some guy in a Mercedes.
Cue the explosion.
Sophia's boyfriend went nuclear, bombarding her with rage before vanishing for good. By the time she pieced together Isabella's lie, it was too late—no witnesses, no proof, just a ruined relationship.
That was the kind of woman I'd married.
Cold. Calculating. Willing to torch someone's life just for fun.
"Isabella's a master manipulator," Sophia hissed. "She flirts with half the men in her WeChat just to boost sales. And Daniel? Please. She calls him her 'bromance partner,' but since when do 'bros' hold hands and kiss in public?"
My blood boiled. Of course I didn't buy it.
Men know men.
That "bromance" crap? Pure fiction. Unless the guy's gay, there's always an agenda.
"They've been together since high school," Sophia added. "Daniel dropped out, bounced around jobs, only came back recently."
I froze. "High school?"
She nodded. "Dead serious. Parents hated it, forced them apart. Ask anyone—it's not even a secret."
To confirm, I called Isabella's cousin, Nathan. We had business ties, and he owed me honesty.
"Ethan, I swear I wasn't hiding this," he rushed out. "I just never thought she'd still be tangled up with Daniel after marrying you."
The story unraveled like a bad soap opera.
High school sweethearts. Forbidden love. Parents at war. Then—Isabella got pregnant.
Six months in, Daniel panicked, bolted town to avoid responsibility. By the time she could've gotten an abortion, it was too late.
The baby didn't survive.
Her parents, humiliated, shoved her into the first stable marriage they could find.
Mine.
And now? She was still sneaking around with him.
Game over.
Divorce wasn't just an option—it was the only option.
I could stomach a messy past. But active infidelity? Lies about a C-section disguised as an appendectomy? That was fraud.
Problem? Proof.
I knew she was at the beach with Daniel, holed up in some seaside hotel. But which one? A few blurry photos wouldn't cut it.
Isabella waltzed in the next afternoon, all sunshine and smiles—and clutching a gift.
"Ta-da! Look what I got you, honey!"
She presented it like some grand gesture.
A sun hat.
Green.
I nearly saw red.
Was this a joke? A green hat—the universal symbol for cuckoldry—handed to me with a grin?
Isabella blanched when she caught my expression but doubled down. "Do you like it? Green's all about eco-friendliness and health!"
I bit back the urge to hurl it across the room. "Thanks."
That night, whether out of guilt or nerves, she slithered into bed in lingerie, all whispered promises and wandering hands.
Fine. If she wanted to play, I'd play.
I took her—hard, rough, fueled by every ounce of fury and humiliation she'd piled on me.
Afterward, as she lay limp and flushed, I waited. Counted breaths. Then—phone check.
But she'd outmaneuvered me. Fingerprint disabled. Passcode changed.
Smart.
Too bad I was smarter.
Tucked in her makeup case? A listening device—tiny, undetectable, with GPS tracking and weeks of battery life.
For days, I tailed her. Watched. Waited.
She was careful. No meetups. No traces.
Until—
Serenity Spa.
And to add insult to injury—she'd blocked me from her Moments. No wonder her feed had been a ghost town for me.
Then I found it—a post from days ago, showing Daniel's workplace: Serenity Spa.
But the real gut punch came as I kept scrolling.
Not a single photo of me. Just endless snaps with Daniel—even the most mundane moments, like sipping bubble tea together.
Anyone scrolling through would assume he was her husband.
"Daniel's a massage therapist at Serenity Spa," Sophia explained, stirring her coffee. "He picks her up after work—shopping, movies, dinners. At first, we all thought he was her boyfriend. Then we found out she was married."
My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice steady. "Why are you telling me this?"
Was she playing me?
Sophia took a slow sip, her smile razor-thin. "Oh, I do want revenge on your wife. But let's be clear—she brought this on herself. She framed me first."
And just like that, the truth spilled out.
Turns out, Sophia and Isabella had been rivals at the same cosmetics counter, their feud simmering for months.
Then, a while back, Sophia's boyfriend came to the mall to make up after a fight—only Isabella was the one who "helped." She casually dropped that she'd seen Sophia sneaking off to a hotel with some guy in a Mercedes.
Cue the explosion.
Sophia's boyfriend went nuclear, bombarding her with rage before vanishing for good. By the time she pieced together Isabella's lie, it was too late—no witnesses, no proof, just a ruined relationship.
That was the kind of woman I'd married.
Cold. Calculating. Willing to torch someone's life just for fun.
"Isabella's a master manipulator," Sophia hissed. "She flirts with half the men in her WeChat just to boost sales. And Daniel? Please. She calls him her 'bromance partner,' but since when do 'bros' hold hands and kiss in public?"
My blood boiled. Of course I didn't buy it.
Men know men.
That "bromance" crap? Pure fiction. Unless the guy's gay, there's always an agenda.
"They've been together since high school," Sophia added. "Daniel dropped out, bounced around jobs, only came back recently."
I froze. "High school?"
She nodded. "Dead serious. Parents hated it, forced them apart. Ask anyone—it's not even a secret."
To confirm, I called Isabella's cousin, Nathan. We had business ties, and he owed me honesty.
"Ethan, I swear I wasn't hiding this," he rushed out. "I just never thought she'd still be tangled up with Daniel after marrying you."
The story unraveled like a bad soap opera.
High school sweethearts. Forbidden love. Parents at war. Then—Isabella got pregnant.
Six months in, Daniel panicked, bolted town to avoid responsibility. By the time she could've gotten an abortion, it was too late.
The baby didn't survive.
Her parents, humiliated, shoved her into the first stable marriage they could find.
Mine.
And now? She was still sneaking around with him.
Game over.
Divorce wasn't just an option—it was the only option.
I could stomach a messy past. But active infidelity? Lies about a C-section disguised as an appendectomy? That was fraud.
Problem? Proof.
I knew she was at the beach with Daniel, holed up in some seaside hotel. But which one? A few blurry photos wouldn't cut it.
Isabella waltzed in the next afternoon, all sunshine and smiles—and clutching a gift.
"Ta-da! Look what I got you, honey!"
She presented it like some grand gesture.
A sun hat.
Green.
I nearly saw red.
Was this a joke? A green hat—the universal symbol for cuckoldry—handed to me with a grin?
Isabella blanched when she caught my expression but doubled down. "Do you like it? Green's all about eco-friendliness and health!"
I bit back the urge to hurl it across the room. "Thanks."
That night, whether out of guilt or nerves, she slithered into bed in lingerie, all whispered promises and wandering hands.
Fine. If she wanted to play, I'd play.
I took her—hard, rough, fueled by every ounce of fury and humiliation she'd piled on me.
Afterward, as she lay limp and flushed, I waited. Counted breaths. Then—phone check.
But she'd outmaneuvered me. Fingerprint disabled. Passcode changed.
Smart.
Too bad I was smarter.
Tucked in her makeup case? A listening device—tiny, undetectable, with GPS tracking and weeks of battery life.
For days, I tailed her. Watched. Waited.
She was careful. No meetups. No traces.
Until—
Serenity Spa.
End of Wife's Bromance Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Wife's Bromance book page.