Dutch Wife Novels & Stories

Eille said, so Clerophine laughed in her mind. "So this witch didn't know that Nate has a wife already, and she's that idiot because she really goes into our mansion to check if Nate is telling the truth? How dumb she is." She said inside her head. "Well, what he said is true; he already has a wife," Clerophine said, so Eille suddenly stopped. "So stop bothering him because he is already married and loves his wife so much." She added, which made Eille's heart scratch. "Really? Is his wife there?" Eille asked; what she felt right now was unexplainable; she was hurt by what this woman in front of her telling.

Let's get out of here," Dad said, swiping through his phone. We sauntering made our way to the exit. "Sir, please stop," a strange voice said from behind us. We returned our attention to the speaker. A young lady in a formal outfit with a ponytail and a small height. She walked up to us and bowed respectfully in front of us. "Good morning Sir, I am your wedding planner. "My name is Nyka," she said with a stiff nod. "Good day, Miss Nyka." We're sorry, but we've decided to move our wedding back to London."

Maria cried out loud her shoulder is shaking and she's tightly gripping my shirt. "Wish you we're my wife too..." We have the right love but at the wrong time.

He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Lena is not a slave, and I need her to…” “Go” he cuts me off. “The woman would not be leaving.” “But…” “That’s final. Now leave Maria.” Walter roars with laughter along with the scantily dressed women perched on his laps. “Dear me! I’ve heard about the way you discipline the women in your household, but I didn’t think it extended to even your wife.” Cheeks burning in humiliation, I hurry out of the room with Walter’s maid before Sebastain can say something worse.

At the dinner party in the Falcone estate, Fiora held up her hand, showing off the ring symbolizing the Don’s wife on her ring finger to the socialites around her. Exclamations erupted from the crowd, who then turned mocking glances toward me in the corner. Santino sat at the head table, his gaze flickering over to me every now and then. After soaking up all the flattery, Fiora picked up a glass of red wine and walked over to me.

Toying with a dagger out of nowhere, Lynne said offhandedly, “Ray, she’s a cheater. Sheh did you dirty. Should I carve her for you? Krystal’s knees buckled, and she knelt before me. “Ray, we’ve been married for seven years. Think of what we once meant to each other…” I kicked her down. “Don’t talk to me about feelings. Seven years of marriage, yet you stood by as your father struck me, and your lover humiliated me.” She hung her head low in shame. “Ray, I made a mistake. I wanted a child so badly that I believed his lies. It won’t happen again… “Ray, the family legacy rests on my shoulders. I needed an heir. Surely, you can see where I’m coming from.”

“Her name is Danica. And she is my wife.” The other end of the line went quiet. For a moment, I imagined her lips thinning into that imperious line she wore whenever someone dared to contradict her. “Ivan,” she finally said, softer but no less insistent. “You cannot seriously mean to drag this out. She’s… she’s nothing like you. Nothing like us.” “She doesn’t need to be.” My gaze flicked to the window, the sprawl of Chicago glittering beneath me. “She’s mine. That’s all that matters.”

• • • ~A storm of possessive rage and raw need~ • Pulling her right beside his frame, he captured her waist in a tight, possessing hold. Flashing a curt smirk at Miliani and then at the consigliere, Daniel stated, "Don't mind my wife, she's a little prankster."

“My wife’s play. Not mine.” The words hit Dante like a slap. Livia wasn’t his wife. Hadn’t been for a long time. She was something sharper now. Something he couldn’t own. Final round. Dante laid down a pair of aces. His smile was thin, triumphant. Livia turned over her cards slowly. Three queens. Dante’s face crumpled. “That’s not possible.” “It’s called bluffing,” Livia said, voice low. “You taught me that. Remember?”

I glanced at the caller ID and felt a surge of relief wash over me; it was Dmitri, my right-hand man and closest confidante. "Nick," Dmitri's voice crackled over the line, his tone urgent. "Your wife is furious. She's coming back early from her trip to France, and she's not happy." I grimaced, the knot of tension in my stomach tightening with every word. My wife—Isabel, the woman I had once thought I loved—had been nothing but a thorn in my side for years now, her constant lies and deceit driving a wedge between us that seemed impossible to bridge.