Wife's Bromance - Chapter 5: Chapter 5
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They did a complete 180. The second they walked through the door, they were suddenly all about reconciliation—gushing over Isabella, begging me to reconsider the divorce.
I couldn't believe the audacity.
Isabella, meanwhile, strutted in like she owned the place, collapsing onto the couch and kicking her feet up on the coffee table.
Then, with a smug little smirk, she dropped the bomb: "Ethan, I'm pregnant."
For a second, my brain short-circuited. But when I saw the triumphant grins on her parents' faces, it all made sense.
This was their Hail Mary—using a baby to lock me down.
I let out a dry laugh. "And why should I care? You really expect me to believe that kid is mine?"
"Ethan!" she shrieked, face turning red. "How dare you! Who else's would it be? You're disgusting!"
Oh, I knew exactly why she was furious. She still had no clue about the listening device hidden in her vanity. As far as she was concerned, I only suspected her affair with Daniel Evans—no hard proof. She'd deleted every text, every photo, every trace. In her mind, she was untouchable. And now, with this pregnancy? She thought she had me by the throat.
"Fine," I said coldly. "We'll do a paternity test. If it's mine, I'll step up. But the divorce is happening. You know what you did. Truth always comes out."
"You heartless bastard!" she screamed. "I'm carrying your child, and you still want out? The courts won't let you!"
Her parents jumped in, screeching about defamation and demanding evidence.
True, I didn't have a smoking gun—just recordings that didn't prove much on their own.
But I wasn't sweating it.
I had a play.
The next day, my parents got dragged into it. Isabella's folks laid into me in front of them, wailing about how I was abandoning their pregnant daughter and ruining her reputation.
My parents—decent, honorable people—chewed me out and forbade the divorce.
I pretended to cave.
Only then did her parents back off. Isabella moved back in, and despite being barely a few weeks along, she quit her job to "rest." My mom even moved in to wait on her hand and foot—bird's nest soup, stewed hens, the whole nine yards.
Isabella ate it up, treating my mother like a servant without an ounce of shame.
I kept my mouth shut.
Then, at work, my phone buzzed—the tracking app. Isabella had left the house.
Showtime.
I called Nathan. "Get her relatives together. Now."
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside Serenity Spa. The listening device confirmed they hadn't started yet—perfect.
Nathan showed up with a dozen of her relatives in tow.
"Ethan, what's going on? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"Are you treating us to a spa day?"
They were confused but perked up when I offered to cover the bill.
The staff looked bewildered as we stormed past reception, heading straight for the private room.
At the door, I raised a finger to my lips.
"Daniel, do you think this baby is yours or Ethan's?" Isabella's voice floated out.
"Who cares? We'll find out when it's born. If it's mine? Even better—let that idiot raise my kid while I keep banging his wife."
"You're terrible! Last time, he almost caught us. Thank God I got pregnant—now his family won't dare touch me."
"Enough talking. Massage is over. Time for the main event."
"Be gentle. I'm pregnant, remember?"
Moans. The sound of skin slapping skin.
Outside, her relatives stood frozen, faces draining of color.
Her parents turned to stone. Their daughter—pregnant, cheating, caught in the act—this scandal would follow them forever.
"ANIMALS!" Her father finally exploded, kicking the door in.
"What the—?!" Daniel started, then gaped at the crowd.
Isabella, naked on the massage table, screamed, "DAD?! MOM?!"
Caught mid-act by her entire family, she scrambled to cover herself.
Daniel wasn't so lucky. Her father and cousins lunged, beating him to a pulp.
I snapped a few photos for evidence, then walked away.
The fallout was brutal. Daniel ended up in the hospital with broken ribs. Police wrote it off as a domestic dispute.
His parents, though? They demanded a million in compensation, blaming Isabella for corrupting their son. After some back-and-forth, her family coughed up $200,000.
That night, her father made her kneel, slapped her twenty times, and disowned her.
I got it. The shame was unbearable.
My parents were devastated—no grandchild, just a messy divorce.
To spare her family further humiliation, I settled out of court. Isabella walked away with nothing, though I agreed to support the kid if DNA proved it was mine.
She never contacted me. Guess that answered that question.
Years later, I moved on, marrying Sophia Anderson.
We'd grown close during the investigation—same values, same vision for life. A year into our marriage, she gave birth to our daughter, bringing light back into my parents' lives.
Unlike Isabella, Sophia was independent. Our marriage was equal. Happy.
As for Isabella? She married Daniel.
That $200,000 "compensation" became her dowry.
But marriage didn't save her. His parents hated her. Daniel got bored. She became their live-in maid.
When I saw her again years later, I barely recognized the hollowed-out woman she'd become.
I couldn't believe the audacity.
Isabella, meanwhile, strutted in like she owned the place, collapsing onto the couch and kicking her feet up on the coffee table.
Then, with a smug little smirk, she dropped the bomb: "Ethan, I'm pregnant."
For a second, my brain short-circuited. But when I saw the triumphant grins on her parents' faces, it all made sense.
This was their Hail Mary—using a baby to lock me down.
I let out a dry laugh. "And why should I care? You really expect me to believe that kid is mine?"
"Ethan!" she shrieked, face turning red. "How dare you! Who else's would it be? You're disgusting!"
Oh, I knew exactly why she was furious. She still had no clue about the listening device hidden in her vanity. As far as she was concerned, I only suspected her affair with Daniel Evans—no hard proof. She'd deleted every text, every photo, every trace. In her mind, she was untouchable. And now, with this pregnancy? She thought she had me by the throat.
"Fine," I said coldly. "We'll do a paternity test. If it's mine, I'll step up. But the divorce is happening. You know what you did. Truth always comes out."
"You heartless bastard!" she screamed. "I'm carrying your child, and you still want out? The courts won't let you!"
Her parents jumped in, screeching about defamation and demanding evidence.
True, I didn't have a smoking gun—just recordings that didn't prove much on their own.
But I wasn't sweating it.
I had a play.
The next day, my parents got dragged into it. Isabella's folks laid into me in front of them, wailing about how I was abandoning their pregnant daughter and ruining her reputation.
My parents—decent, honorable people—chewed me out and forbade the divorce.
I pretended to cave.
Only then did her parents back off. Isabella moved back in, and despite being barely a few weeks along, she quit her job to "rest." My mom even moved in to wait on her hand and foot—bird's nest soup, stewed hens, the whole nine yards.
Isabella ate it up, treating my mother like a servant without an ounce of shame.
I kept my mouth shut.
Then, at work, my phone buzzed—the tracking app. Isabella had left the house.
Showtime.
I called Nathan. "Get her relatives together. Now."
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside Serenity Spa. The listening device confirmed they hadn't started yet—perfect.
Nathan showed up with a dozen of her relatives in tow.
"Ethan, what's going on? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"Are you treating us to a spa day?"
They were confused but perked up when I offered to cover the bill.
The staff looked bewildered as we stormed past reception, heading straight for the private room.
At the door, I raised a finger to my lips.
"Daniel, do you think this baby is yours or Ethan's?" Isabella's voice floated out.
"Who cares? We'll find out when it's born. If it's mine? Even better—let that idiot raise my kid while I keep banging his wife."
"You're terrible! Last time, he almost caught us. Thank God I got pregnant—now his family won't dare touch me."
"Enough talking. Massage is over. Time for the main event."
"Be gentle. I'm pregnant, remember?"
Moans. The sound of skin slapping skin.
Outside, her relatives stood frozen, faces draining of color.
Her parents turned to stone. Their daughter—pregnant, cheating, caught in the act—this scandal would follow them forever.
"ANIMALS!" Her father finally exploded, kicking the door in.
"What the—?!" Daniel started, then gaped at the crowd.
Isabella, naked on the massage table, screamed, "DAD?! MOM?!"
Caught mid-act by her entire family, she scrambled to cover herself.
Daniel wasn't so lucky. Her father and cousins lunged, beating him to a pulp.
I snapped a few photos for evidence, then walked away.
The fallout was brutal. Daniel ended up in the hospital with broken ribs. Police wrote it off as a domestic dispute.
His parents, though? They demanded a million in compensation, blaming Isabella for corrupting their son. After some back-and-forth, her family coughed up $200,000.
That night, her father made her kneel, slapped her twenty times, and disowned her.
I got it. The shame was unbearable.
My parents were devastated—no grandchild, just a messy divorce.
To spare her family further humiliation, I settled out of court. Isabella walked away with nothing, though I agreed to support the kid if DNA proved it was mine.
She never contacted me. Guess that answered that question.
Years later, I moved on, marrying Sophia Anderson.
We'd grown close during the investigation—same values, same vision for life. A year into our marriage, she gave birth to our daughter, bringing light back into my parents' lives.
Unlike Isabella, Sophia was independent. Our marriage was equal. Happy.
As for Isabella? She married Daniel.
That $200,000 "compensation" became her dowry.
But marriage didn't save her. His parents hated her. Daniel got bored. She became their live-in maid.
When I saw her again years later, I barely recognized the hollowed-out woman she'd become.
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