Married To A Sex Freak のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 50

I felt him chuckle against me, a deep, satisfied rumble in his chest, misunderstanding my request as a playful, shallow whim. He pulled back, his eyes shining with adoration.“Whatever you want, my love. Whatever you want.”I looked at him, the picture of stunned, dawning happiness. The smile I gave him was small, tremulous, and utterly false. I let the calculated, joyful realization wash over my features as I moved close to him once more, initiating a second hug. This was not the hug of a victim, but the calculated embrace of a strategist.“Yes, you said whatever I want… and that’s it,” I whispered, forcing a thick, emotional tremor into my voice, as if I were truly, deeply moved. I was performing for him, for Bryan, for Robert, for all of them. "See..." I pulled back just enough to look at him, my eyes wide and pleading. "Shouldn't you place me on a weekly salary?"I let the question hang, allowing it to sound like the pout of a cherished, spoiled wife. “I am your wife,” I continued

The thought died down, and the reality of the situation settled back in. I couldn't dwell on the terrifying implications of the rainbow gown or the gift of the phone. Not yet. They were all here because of me, and I had to maintain the illusion. I made sure to laugh at the right moments, to smile warmly, and to project the image of a woman who had the best of this non crowdy elegant birthday party. But beneath the performance, I was physically, utterly tired. My adrenaline reserves were depleted, and the heavy meal was fighting the wine, making me yearn for a dark room and a nap.“Shouldn’t we have lunch somewhere aside from this?”Robert’s voice, loud and friendly, cut through the residual merriment. He punctuated his suggestion by jokingly moving his finger anticlockwise, pointing it towards the floor, then letting his eyes dart around the house—a clear, conspiratorial gesture for us to escape the confines of the mansion for a more lively bar or eatery.My eyes went wide open. The

I moved down the grand staircase, my sneakers silent on the ground, yet my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I half-expected to walk into a scene of awkward silence, with Collins standing rigid and red-faced. Instead, the sitting room was deceptively calm. The tension I had left behind in the bedroom had been meticulously scrubbed away.Collins was already there, positioned near the front doors, looking completely composed. His hair was slightly dishevelled from his quick exit and return, and amazingly, the angry flush was gone from his neck. He was talking easily with the other guests, his voice a low, charming murmur.“Ah, there she is!” Robert’s voice boomed, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere. He was clearly trying to smooth over the brief absence. He was already halfway out the door, moving with exaggerated, jovial energy. He waved his hand dismissively at the cake table. “See, Collins, denim or diamonds, she’s still going to outshine us all. Come on, let’s get some real foo

The day wore on in that glass heaven, an endless performance fueled by excessive consumption. I was trapped at the golden table, forced to maintain the image of the beloved birthday wife. I was unable to have my escape as planned.The lunch transitioned into an evening of endless celebratory toasts. Collins, insistent on proving his extravagant affection, kept pushing the sommelier to bring more bottles. I was forced to drink to stupor by Collins, or at least, that was the public narrative. Robert was trying to stop me from heeding his friend, frequently placing his hand over my glass with a worried smile. "Hey, easy, birthday girl, don't forget tomorrow's agenda!" he’d joke.But what was oblivious to him was that I got drunk on my own free will. Each sip of the cold, crisp white wine was a deliberate decision, a choice to dull the sharp edges of my terror and the crushing weight of the failed plan. I needed to forget all this stress—the demanding façade, the chilling threat of the r

​I paced the small confines of Mary’s room, a frantic animal in a cage barely larger than its own panic. My bare feet barely made a sound on the floor, but the thump of my heart was a deafening, internal roar. I held the new phone pressed tightly to my ear, its cold, smooth surface feeling like the anchor to sanity. I paced the room anxiously, expecting the call to be picked up any second.The ringing tone didn't just sound; it struck—a sharp, invasive blow that made my head bang harder against my skull this time. The pain was immediate and insistent, a rhythmic hammering that focused right behind my eyes. Instinctively, my left hand flew up to my temples, digging in to try and press the agony away. As I paced the small room, a restless circuit of anxiety and discomfort, my hand moved with my agitation: from the aching pressure on my head, down to clutch my waist for an unsteady moment of balance, only to snap back up again, seeking some relief from the relentless, percussive noise