Chapter 1My Wife Handed Me My Bride

Every time my wife brought home a new boy toy, she made sure to bring back a college girl for me.

"I need some excitement, and you need company," she’d say, her voice dripping with casual indifference. "We both get what we need. No hard feelings, right?"

But this time, she flew too close to the sun.

Stroking her slightly rounded three-month-old belly, she spoke to me with a veneer of sweet, reasonable negotiation:

"We slipped up, and I got pregnant. Troy wants me to give him some status before he agrees to let me carry this baby to term. So, we need a temporary divorce."

"Until we get back together, you can play around with her. I won't stand in your way."

I looked at the seemingly innocent home-wrecker standing beside her, and then at the college girl on the other side, whose ears were burning a bright, embarrassed red.

I looked up and smiled.

"Sure. Whatever you want."

The cigarette dangling from her lips froze.

* * *

Every time Marina brought a young boy home, she made sure to have a college girl in tow for me.

For three years, she had never missed a beat.

In the past, I would face them with a cold expression and hand over a check.

Five thousand, ten thousand, sometimes thirty thousand dollars.

I’d tell them to take the money and get the hell out of my house.

Marina’s circle of friends used to mock me behind my back. They said I had a ridiculous moral purity complex—that if I so much as touched another woman, my skin would crawl off.

Marina believed them.

That was why she was so utterly fearless. She brought woman after woman into my home, parading them before me just to test my limits and trample on my remaining dignity.

But this last time, she brought Troy.

He was a young college student with clear, clean eyes and a low, soothing voice. And alongside him, she brought Ivy.

Ivy was different. She was five-foot-eight, a top pre-law student, a mock trial champion, and on a full academic scholarship.

Marina had spent real money this time. This wasn't some random girl she had picked up from a nightclub.

"We slipped up," Marina said, her hand resting on her stomach as she spoke in a tone so light she might have been commenting on the weather. "Troy wants a ring before he lets me carry this baby to term. We need a quick, temporary divorce."

"Until we get back together, you can do whatever you want with her. I won't care."

Later, in the hallway, I overheard her friend Lauren asking her in a hushed whisper, "Marina, seriously? This is the man you climbed ninety-nine wet stone steps at St. Jude's Cathedral on your bare knees to pray for. Are you really this generous?"

"Yeah," Rachel chimed in. "You didn't even give that college girl any ground rules. What if she actually touches Dylan?"

Marina took a slow, elegant drag of her cigarette. "I don't have a cuckold kink. You all know Dylan’s obsessive need for absolute fidelity. He won't touch her."

"Ah, Marina, you're brilliant. You bring the girl to his doorstep, but if he doesn't use what's offered, that's his problem. It's the perfect crime."

I stood at the top of the stairs, hearing every word clear as day.

In the past, I would have stormed down. I would have smashed a glass, screamed at her, and demanded to know how she could treat me this way. And then she would have looked at me with cold amusement and asked, "Are you done throwing a tantrum yet?"

Then would come the weeks of agonizing silence, followed eventually by the arrival of the next girl.

But today, I didn't storm down.

I walked down the stairs calmly.

Every eye in the living room turned to me. Marina looked up, a smug, victorious grin hovering at the corner of her lips. She expected the usual—the thrown check, the demands for them to leave, the tearful fight.

Instead, I looked up and smiled.

"Sure. Whatever you want."

The living room fell into a sudden, heavy silence.

Lauren was the first to react. "Wait, Dylan, what did you just say?"

I set my phone down, my gaze sliding past Marina to land directly on Ivy.

"I said sure."

I looked her up and down.

"She is actually quite beautiful."

Someone in the back gasped.

"Dylan actually agreed?!"

"No way. He's not kicking her out this time?"

"Marina, did you hear that?"

Marina’s expression didn't change. That faint, confident smirk remained on her face, but the fingers holding her cigarette tightened slightly.

Troy, looking a bit nervous, clung tighter to Marina’s arm. "Marina, he's finally seeing reason. You should be happy."

Marina didn't reply. She stubbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray, walked over to Ivy, and patted her on the shoulder.

"Take good care of him."

With that, she wrapped her arm around Troy and headed upstairs.

I withdrew my gaze and looked at Ivy, who was still standing in the same spot, her ears burning red.

"Are you staying here, or do you need to go back to campus?"

She swallowed hard, her voice quiet and thin. "Either... either is fine."

"Then stay here."

I turned and walked down the hallway. Behind me, the whispers started up again, sharp and quiet.

"Is he serious this time?"

"Usually he throws a fit that ruins the whole night!"

"Oh, relax, Marina knows him. He's just trying to get a rise out of her. Remember the last one? He had security throw her out on the lawn."

"He's probably just doing this to spite her because Troy got her pregnant."

I kept walking, the words pricking at my back like tiny needles. They didn't cause a sharp pain, but they left a dull, aching throb.

They were right. I had been foolishly proud. I had been too convinced that my refusal to touch anyone else would somehow protect my marriage.

But what did my emotional cleanliness actually protect?

A signed divorce agreement. An empty bed. The laughingstock of her social circle.

At the door of the guest bedroom, I pushed it open.

"Here you go."

I leaned against the doorframe, watching Ivy stand nervously in the room, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt.

"Are you doing this for the money?" I asked.

She nodded. No hesitation. No excuses.

The old Dylan would have scoffed, thrown a check, and told her to get out. I would have stood on my moral high ground, treating every girl Marina brought home as if they were dirt.

And what did that get me? The girls left, but Marina never stayed.

In truth, none of those girls were dirtier than she was.

"Let the housekeeper know if you need anything," I said, walking into the room.

She followed me inside. "I'm Ivy," she murmured.

"I know," I said without looking back. "Marina told me."

I walked out onto the balcony. I didn't ask her to follow, and she didn't try to.

Below, the guests were finally leaving. I had lost count of how many times they had gathered here to watch my life fall apart.

Returning to the bedroom, I glanced at the divorce papers sitting on the nightstand.

For three years, I had closed my eyes to her behavior because of what had happened back then. We both had our debts to pay.

At first, I told her: "just don't bring them home."

Then I said: "just make sure you use protection."

I had retreated step by step, and she had pushed further and further.

Now, since we were both thoroughly exhausted by this marriage, there was no point in hesitating.

I picked up the pen and signed my name.

Ivy had just finished her shower and walked out of the bathroom, her hair half-damp. The moment she saw me, her ears flushed red again.

"I'm... I'm done washing up."

I stood up. Marina had really chosen someone who blushed easily this time.

The previous girls usually had a look of resentment in their eyes when I paid them to leave. One had even screamed at me: "Are you two crazy? One pushes us in, the other kicks us out. What do you think we are?"

I had only looked at her coldly and said, "Take the money and shut up."

Now, I realized she was right. We were both sick. One had a craving for betrayal, and the other had a pathological need for purity.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marina: "Go to sleep early."

I stared at the words, finding them laughably absurd. She had never sent me texts like this before. She only sent it now because I had kept Ivy.

Because she realized that the husband who "never touches anyone" might actually do it this time.

I didn't reply.

The lights outside went out, and the entire house fell silent.

Troy had moved in, and Ivy had moved in.

This place finally felt like a landfill—a dump where anyone could be thrown. Including me.

I switched off the light, a faint, mocking smile on my face in the dark.

She thought I was still the same Dylan. She thought I didn't dare. She thought I would always keep myself clean for her.

She was wrong.