Novel & Cerita Not Your Perfect Wife Anymore

It feels like I constantly have to be perfect for him, and it's not who I am. I'm messy, and I love being free. Even with a missing memory, I can tell my marriage is not one that was based on love. “Not so bad, right?” Zayan whispers in my ear, pulling me back to reality. “If we didn't have so many eyes on us. It would have been perfect.” I taunt. “I'll organize a private ride with you on our next date then.” He teases, and I hold back a laugh knowing cameras are flashing.

“That trending post of Blake buying an engagement ring made me realize I should go back, claim what was mine, and prove to these stupid women that Blake isn’t available anymore,” He nodded approvingly and smiled. “I guess it’s his cousin’s press release before that he’s single, making women crazy,” He smirked, sneering at me. “I’m just glad you did because Blake is becoming a fool, always playing around. It’s time to settle down.” My jaw tightened, trying to calm myself. “But that made me realize to delay my Ph.D. this year and focus on our wedding,” She turned her gaze to me, smiling dreamily.

“All of them?” “Yes, Ava. They don’t want your name near theirs. You’ve become toxic.” I swallowed hard. “And you?” Silence. Then a whisper. “I can’t fight this for you. I’m sorry.” The call ended before I could say another word. I sank onto the floor, the phone slipping from my hand. My image stared back from the black screenmessy hair, tired eyes, the woman I once promised I’d never become. For years, I had been the perfect wife. The happy face beside Charles. The charity darling. The woman who looked polished enough to be praised, quiet enough to be overlooked.

Mason asked after some moment of uncomfortable silence. Kate removed her hands from her face and looked up at him with a serious gaze; "Because I was trying to be the perfect daughter they want me to be, the perfect daughter that I have always been. But you know what? I am done! They never really showed me love or care. I feel like a puppet meant to please everyone, I'm also very good for business, and that is what this goddamn marriage is. Business!!! I am fucking done being their tool, I am done being the perfect daughter, and if you expect me to be your perfect wife, then... screw you!!!!!!"

“Are you perfect?” “No.” “Then why should your future wife have all the pressure to be flawless? It’s okay to be annoyed at the person you love sometimes. It’s natural if something they do makes you sad, or if you do something that is less than optimal. We all make mistakes. If that’s why you’re still single—because you’re looking for Miss Perfect—you are going to be single for a very, very long time.” “I don’t think I’m expecting her to be perfect,” Parker said with a frown. “Just the relationship.”

"Maybe if you paid half as much attention to me as you do that company...." "Don't." Her voice dropped to something cold and lethal. She didn't recognize it. She liked it. "Don't you dare make this my fault. I tried. God, I tried so hard to be what you wanted. But you know what? I'm done trying. I'm done being perfect. I'm done being your wife." She grabbed her purse from the entry table and headed for the door. "Where are you going?" She didn't answer. Didn't look back. Just walked out of that perfect white prison and into the night, her hands shaking and her heart racing and her mind screaming with a chaos she'd never allowed herself to feel.

“Your wife is in one of our wards, and honestly, she's not doing too well.” Fuck.

"If you accept it, then stay in our bed, goddamnit!" Anya huffed, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and zipped it shut with a loud snap. "Haven't I made that point clear enough for you? There is no need to stay in a matrimonial room if my husband is going to be in another woman's room half of the time. It doesn't feel like a marriage, Nikolai. It feels like I'm waiting in line for a turn that never comes. I can't do this anymore, okay? I have put up with it enough."

Why was I just sitting here while my wife was betraying me? I looked into the room. My wife's mother had given us an antique vanity whose mirror was no longer attached as firmly as it should have been and it tilted slightly downward. I thought absently about how I was supposed to have fixed it some time ago ... but now I was happy and yet sad that I hadn't. It afforded me a view of the bed; it let me watch my wife and her lover. Her wailing was increasing. My wife was not a quiet lover; her passion started as low moans, almost growls, that kept rising in volume and pitch until her climax. I could tell she was near, could hear her wailing rising to a fever pitch.

"But you need to see this." She held up her iPad. A Page Six exclusive. The headline was a gut punch. "New York's New Mob King, Enzo Moretti, Dances with Falcone Heiress Stella, Hinting at a Union of Two Crime Empires." My chest tightened. The first dance of the coronation. Last night, tangled in the sheets, he'd sworn I was his only partner. Now, another woman was on his arm, wearing the crystal shoes that were meant for me.