Chapter 3I Saw Your Secret Stream

I had never seen this side of David. The man in this chat was a stranger—foul-mouthed, depraved, and cruel.

The "products" being shared weren't items. They were women.

The members were posting photos—scandalous, private shots—and rating them like pieces of meat. And the most active participant, the ringleader of this disgusting circus, was my "dignified" husband.

He had shared everything. Details of our sex life, photos of me sleeping, descriptions that made me want to scrub my skin raw.

I gripped the iPad until my knuckles turned white, my face burning with a mix of shame and fury. A knock at the front door startled me.

It was a courier. He handed me a box containing the "special dress" David had mentioned. As I took it, I noticed the way the courier looked at me—a lingering, oily smirk, as if he knew what I looked like under my clothes. It made my skin crawl. I slammed the door and locked it.

I looked back at the iPad. A new message popped up in the group.

“@DavidM: Damn, Dave. Your wife is a ten. Way better than the live stream. Those postpartum curves? I’d pay double for a seat tonight.”

David’s avatar—a professional headshot—appeared next. He posted a smirking emoji.

“Told you guys. She used to do some modeling back in the day. The view is even better when she doesn't know she’s being watched.”

“@DavidM: So, is it happening? You said we might get a chance to ‘sample the goods’ in person?”

“Don't worry,” David replied. “I always deliver. I streamed our wedding night for the premium tier, didn't I?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. I collapsed against the wall, the room spinning. Our wedding night. The most sacred, vulnerable moment of my life, and he had sold it to four hundred and ninety-nine strangers.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I started retching.

The men in the chat were spiraling into a frenzy of graphic fantasies about me. Then, David tagged everyone.

“Long time no see for a live event. Remember to tune in tomorrow night—subscription required. Tonight, however, we’re doing a ‘special guest’ uniform show.”

I realized there was a pinned link at the top of the chat: “Access Live Feed.”

With trembling fingers, I clicked it. My heart stopped.

It was a crystal-clear view of our bedroom. My bedroom.

I realized with a jolt of horror that every private moment, every struggle with my new body, every intimate act I thought was shared only with my husband had been a public performance. I was a puppet in a show I didn't know I was starring in.

I was shaking so hard I couldn't stand. I wanted to scream, to burn the house down, to fly at him the moment he walked through the door.

Then, a text from David popped up on my own phone. His tone was perfectly normal.

“Hey babe, did the dress arrive? Put it on for me. I want to see how it looks on you before the guys get there.”

I opened the box with numb fingers. It wasn't a dress. It was a piece of cheap, provocative lace—a costume.

I remembered his message about the "uniform show" and the "guests" coming over. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll as the realization hit me like a physical blow. He wasn't just bringing colleagues for dinner. He was bringing "subscribers."