Lahat ng Kabanata ng My Husband Wants An Open Marriage: Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

The dining room is chaotic. Plates clatter, wine glasses clink, and everyone is shouting over each other. My dad is seated at the head of the table. He’s holding court as usual, recounting some wild story that I’m sure gets more exaggerated with every telling.At a point between stories, he leans over, his eyes twinkling. “So, Julie, tell me—how does my son behave in the big city? Still the same little troublemaker?”Julie smirks. “Oh, he’s very well-behaved. When he’s asleep.”The entire table erupts in laughter, and I shake my head. “Traitor.”“Back in the day,” my dad says. “Lucas was a terror. Always climbing trees, sneaking out—one time, he got stuck on the roof, and we had to call the fire department to get him down!”Julie turns to me. “Really?”“I was eight.”“You were twelve,” my dad corrects.Julie’s laughter is infectious, and I find myself relaxing, letting the warmth of the room and the chatter wash over me. She’s handling my family better than I expected, even if she’s s

~~Luke~~Carolina had refused to say anything over the phone, so I’d had to drive fifteen minutes to Mall del Río, only to hear her say, “I don’t know what happened. I came out, and she wasn’t there. The car door was open.”The parking lot feels suffocating. Each breath burns like shards of glass in my lungs. My mother stands rigidly next to me, her face pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup, hands clasped in front of her. Carolina leans against a nearby car, her shoulders hunched, tears streaking her cheeks.My heart isn’t just pounding—it’s thrashing, threatening to break free from my chest and splatter all over the asphalt. Why didn’t Julie use the damn security we hired?“That woman will be the death of me,” I mutter under my breath.I pull out my phone, fingers trembling as I dial the emergency number. Carolina’s sobs echo in the open space, her voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have gone inside… I shouldn’t have left her.”My mother’s voice cuts in. “Lucas, what are you doing?”“

~~Ryan O’Brien~~The cold splash of water shocks Ryan awake. His head is throbbing, each pulse like a mallet pounding against his skull. He groans, squinting against the morning light. Everywhere is bright. Too bright. It’s like a thousand needles piercing his eyes. His mouth feels dry and cottony. He tries to swallow, but his throat is parched. As he tries to sit up, the room spins. You’d think after two months, he’d get used to this feeling. But it hurts every single time."Aww," he says, clutching his head. "What the hell—""Don’t get up too fast."The voice is sharp, familiar, and unapologetic. He blinks away the fog until his mother’s silhouette sharpens before him. She’s standing tall and imposing, dressed in a cream suit that somehow looks both effortless and intimidating. In one hand, she holds a half-emptied glass of water, the one she’d poured on his face. In the other, two white pills."Don’t tell me you’ve finally decided to kill me," Ryan says."What?”"Poison me."She sn

I and Marissa, the vice president of marketing, have formed a new habit of meeting for lunch. It started as casual, a convenience thing—we both needed a break from the relentless grind at Illusionaire. Now, it’s become a ritual. I’m still unsure if this qualifies as friendship, mainly because I don’t know what friendship actually looks like. But Marissa talks a lot, and I love to listen. Her stories have this wild, messy charm, like someone spilling glitter across a chaotic art project.We’re at a cozy little café a few blocks from work, the kind of place that tries too hard to be trendy with its mismatched furniture and aggressively minimalist menu. Marissa is mid-rant about her current boyfriend and her dog, gesturing with a fork that’s dangerously close to flinging her salad across the room.“I swear, Nathan only comes over to spend time with Chubbs.”I choke on my sip of iced tea. “Chubbs?”She nods. “My French bulldog. He’s—how do I put this—larger than life. And I mean larger. T

~~Julie~~People say all brides are late to their weddings. It’s practically a tradition, isn’t it? But me? I was not going to be one of those brides. I had a plan. I gave myself a generous window—ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops—because, really, what could possibly make me late?The answer, apparently, is everything. Here I am, forty minutes behind schedule, crammed in the backseat of a car with Marissa, my maid of honor, wrestling with my veil like it’s some kind of unruly octopus.“Hold still,” Marissa says, her fingers tangled in the fabric. “You keep moving, and this thing’s going to look like a bird nested in your hair.”“I wouldn’t be moving if we weren’t speeding down the road like we’re in a car chase,” I shoot back, my head jerking as the driver swerves to avoid another car.The blame? It falls squarely on last night’s rehearsal dinner. It felt like the entire world showed up. Luke’s family alone must have taken up half the venue, and their energy? Boundless. How do they eve