The Man's Perfect Wife Novels & Stories

“Obedient? You are far from obedient, Nomes. I don’t want or need you to be perfect. I want you to be who you are. I know what I said earlier about you attending events with me, but I didn’t mean that I wanted you to be like all the other wives. There’s a reason I never took a woman to any of the events. Even when I was with them, I was ashamed of them, but I’m not ashamed of you. You are the only woman I’ve ever thought was good enough to be on my arm at those events. You are the only one that I’ve ever wanted to take to one. If you want to be like them, fine. If you don’t want to be like them, even better, but I don’t want you to choose who you are going to be because the other wives are a

She was a middle-aged woman who smiled and looked at Rowan’s face, clearly struck by his actor-like handsomeness. "Mr. Carson, are you sure that you want to marry this woman?" she asked, taking me by surprise that she knew Rowan. Only then did it occur to me that I came from a lower-class family, while Rowan’s family were billionaires. "Yes. Do you have a problem with it, Mrs. Judge?" Rowan asked, his voice cold. "No. It’s just that I thought you were in a serious relationship with Sage Andrews. Are the Andrews aware that you are having a secret marriage instead of marrying their daughter?" she asked further, embarrassing me as I lowered my head.

In her mind, no one was truly perfect in this world. The so-called perfect person should not eat or drink and be capable of doing everything. That was called true perfectionism. Only gods should be so perfect. Were they gods? Weren't they just like humans like everyone else? Yet they pretended to be perfectionists. Julien found her huffing look cute, and he couldn't help but pinch her cheek. It felt tender and good. "Radical, indeed," Julien echoed. As a model husband, he needed to support his wife.

Let’s face it, how often these days do you see a knockout 39-year-old woman who is 5'2", 110 lbs., brunette, with absolutely perfect legs, a perfect ass, and an unbelievably beautiful smile? Now, when I say a younger fellow, I mean my wife was 39, and this young man was 22 at the time. She’s not the type to take advantage of kindness, and actually, he’s not the type who even realizes he’s going overboard for her. But it was so very obvious—he was always trying to please her in everything he did.

At 11:00 AM, my husband, Silas Vexille, slowly drowned in our indoor thermal pool. At the time, I was having my usual morning tea with the other mafia wives in the estate's back garden. The pool room was directly above the garden, barely a dozen feet away. Originally, if I had gone back to the main house at 11:00 as usual, I would have had plenty of time to save him. But as fate would have it, Victoria Harrison insisted on inviting us over to her nearby home to see her new pink diamond. At 11:20 AM, my daughter April and I pushed open the doors to the pool room. By then, Silas was already gone. At the lavish funeral, I was devastated, fainting several times. The mourners murmured in sympathy

I see the kind of woman the man is going to marry at the bench in the small park on the hill in Los Angeles with the view of the lobby of the hospital. You look like the wife, Sophie says. I look like the wife. You look like the wife the way the wives the men the wives are the wives of are the kind of wives the men the wives are the wives of are the kind of men who are the men the women the wives are the wives of are going to marry. You look like the wife the way the wife is supposed to look. You look like the wife of the man. You look like the wife the man is going to marry at the bench in the small park on the hill in Los Angeles with the view of the lobby of the hospital.

“Mr. Dean, sir, this woman is lying. She’s my wife, you see and she’s just throwing a tantrum. As a matter of fact, I told her to tender in her resignation last night and come home to her family but she refused. And now she’s putting our daughter’s life in danger.” My brow twitched as well as my lip. How could he stand there and lie so casually? But then again he’d do so, so flawlessly it took me ten years to find out. He was testing my patience and it would soon run out. What he had done to me was a crime that was punishable by law, had he forgotten? Maybe he just doesn’t care. Or maybe he thought he would get away with it, because after all, I was just June. A nobody. Just someone talented

Their wives, who knew Kenneth, laughed with them. “But you know what? If he could pull it off, well and good,” Leon suggested. “He’s still in his prime.” Jules scoffed. He shook his head, saying, “Please.” “You’re just jealous of Kenneth,” Aiden pointed out. “Yeah,” almost everyone said, and they all fell into amused laughter again. Some of their wives countered with frowns. However, Jules’ wife, Anna, said, “But it’s true. There’s no perfect person in this world. He should lower his standards to find someone to share his life with.”

In the confines of the car, Vivienne finally dropped her mask of innocence. "Isolde, why are you doing all this?" She swirled the Bloody Mary in her hand, her eyes full of mockery. "A guilty conscience? Or is there some other reason?" "Because it's what you've always dreamed of, isn't it?" I leaned against the car window. "My husband, my power, my wealth... Vivienne, you've won." "Hmph." She sneered. "Don't think this will make me grateful. You're the one who ruined my human life."

Smile thin as a blade. “Lucas Harrington,” he greeted smoothly. “You look well.” Lucas didn’t return the smile. “Adrian Cole.” Amara felt the tension shift instantly. This was no rumor. This was history. Adrian’s gaze moved to her. Assessing. Calculating. “So this is the wife,” he said. “You do have a talent for unexpected decisions.” “Say what you want and leave her out of it,” Lucas said coldly. Adrian chuckled. “You always did overestimate your control.”