Male Chef Tattoos

I head to a real estate sales office with my fiancée to purchase a marital home, where we meet a two-faced realtor. He starts off by complimenting my fiancée for everything she's achieved at her young age, especially since she can afford to drive a Rolls-Royce. Then, he hints that I'm wearing a fake watch and pretending to be rich so that I can live off her money and get a house without paying a cent. When he learns that we're buying our marital home, he raises his voice and says to me, "I think the sugar mommy who bought you two houses the last time was pretty nice. Oh, wait—I forgot that you have more than one sugar mommy, Mr. Bellway. Do they know of one another's existences?" I smile. My so-called sugar mommy is my actual godmother, but there's no denying that she's rich. Unfortunately for this realtor, my fiancée is nothing but a poor student whom I sponsored back in the day!

The day before our wedding, I received an expensive suit from my wife. Not long after, her young lover called me, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. It was my fault. My bad for mixing up your size. Please… please don't blame Sylvie." On the other end, I could hear Sylvie soothing him gently, patiently, until he calmed down. I stared at the plane ticket in my hand—a one-way trip out of the country—and calmly asked her for a divorce. Then, as if I no longer mattered, she left me with a single, cold sentence. "Just don't regret it."

My wife, who had always despised lugging around keys, ditched our modern smart lock for a clunky old-school key version. She even bolted it shut during showers. Every time I returned from work, I'd have to ring her up first. Fed up, I slapped the divorce agreement on the table during a family get-together. Everyone assumed I was drunk and joking. My wife hauled off and cracked me across the face. "Am I asking too much? You promised you'd indulge me forever." I met her glare with icy indifference and let out a bitter scoff. "Aren't I divorcing you and never returning the ultimate indulgence?"

Eight years married, and my wife? She asked for a divorce 99 times. I thought it was just her usual drama—testing me. Then I found out she'd been wiring half a million every year to some dude. Always with the same note: ILU. When she hit me with divorce number 100, I finally signed. I pulled my money out of her little passion project and ghosted—moved my company overseas, wiped my tracks clean. Now she's out there losing her mind, trying to find me.

My younger brother had stage four kidney cancer. Our parents demanded that I donate a kidney to save him. I told them I only had one kidney left. The transplant would kill me. Instead of listening to me, they forcibly strapped me to the operating table. “It’s just one kidney! Stop being so selfish!” they yelled. They did not care that I was telling the truth. Years ago, I had given my other kidney to save my father after his car crash.

On my birthday, Heather Pond’s lover posted a sonogram on his social media account and captioned it, [We’re going to be parents!] I commented, [Congratulations. You can have the baby cot from my place.] The next second, Heather called me to give me a warning. “Brandon Smith is dying. I’ll come back to you once I give birth to his child. Please don’t trigger him any further!” I remained calm and collected when I served her the divorce papers. Then, I packed my bags and went on a vacation in Europe.

I'm on my way to get married when a truck slams into my car from behind. After being unconscious for a long time, I hear the doctor telling my fiancee that I might lose my memory. I decide to have a little fun and open my eyes, pretending to be confused. "Who are you?" My fiancee goes completely still. I'm about to admit I'm only teasing her, but before I can, she grabs my best man's hand without a second thought. "I'm Janice Lloyd, your best friend's fiancee. You got into a car accident on your way to our wedding."

To retrieve the engagement ring my wife shared with her first love, she actually sent our five-year-old daughter into a haunted house alone. Terrified by the bloodstains inside, our daughter accidentally fell down the stairs. A steel rod pierced her stomach, and even in her final moments, she clung tightly to the ring, refusing to let go. I cradled her lifeless body, crying uncontrollably, and called my wife countless times. When she finally answered, she impatiently warned me, "Robert’s daughter is about to undergo heart transplant surgery. Stop causing trouble!" Devastated, I made another call. "Hello, this is Lily's father. I'm sorry, but we can no longer agree to the heart donation." If they were responsible for my daughter's death, they could forget about taking her heart!

In my fifth year of teaching at a rural school in Mount Dalon, Melissa Snow shows up with her first love by her side. "Have you had enough of this miserable life? Go apologize, and after I'm married, I might still support you. Otherwise, stay here and rot as a lonely, broke schoolteacher." People around us begin to whisper, acting like I've been handed my golden ticket out of the impoverished area and should be falling to my knees in gratitude. I simply smile. "Teaching here suits me just fine. Besides, I'm married."

My wife, Rochelle Willoughby, went on a business trip for five months. When I picked her up at the airport, she showed up with her true love instead. I noticed her baby bump and was about to ask some questions, but she shoved me away like I was some disgusting piece of trash. "Don't touch me with your grubby hands. I'm pregnant with Samuel's baby. If you hurt it somehow, I'll kill you!" Then, she gently held Samuel Riverson's hand. "You must be exhausted. Let's go home." She left me at the airport without so much as a glance. I saw them off and quietly rubbed the part Rochelle shoved. Then, I contacted my divorce lawyer. Ten years. This marriage finally came to an end.