My Husband Sold Me to His Friends

My Husband Sold Me to His Friends

Betty · Ongoing · 9 Chapters

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About this book

On my husband's birthday, he stumbled through the front door, completely wasted. His so-called friends took advantage of his drunken stupor and backed me into a corner. "Keep it down, Mrs. Roland," one of them sneered, pressing a rough hand over my mouth. "Wouldn't want Vincent waking up to this, would you?"

Chapter 1

On my husband's birthday, he stumbled through the front door, completely wasted. His so-called friends took advantage of his drunken stupor and backed me into a corner.

"Keep it down, Mrs. Roland," one of them sneered, pressing a rough hand over my mouth. "Wouldn't want Vincent waking up to this, would you?"

My cries for help died in my throat. My husband, oblivious as ever, didn't stir.

Earlier that evening, I had stood in front of the mirror, admiring the way the French maid costume hugged my curves. It was his birthday, after all—I wanted to give him a night he wouldn't forget.

The delicate white lace framing the neckline and hem added a touch of elegance, while the playful kitty ears and bow at my waist teased just enough. The heart-shaped cutout plunged low, showcasing my cleavage, and the scandalously short skirt left little to the imagination. Sheer black stockings traced the length of my legs, and beneath it all, I'd slipped into a thong—just for him.

When I heard the door open, I rushed to greet him, giddy with anticipation.

Then my stomach dropped.

Vincent wasn't alone.

A pack of his friends stood behind him, their eyes raking over me with a mix of shock and barely contained amusement. My face burned like I'd been shoved into an oven.

"I thought it was just us tonight!" I hissed, scrambling to cover myself. "You couldn't have warned me?"

Mortified, I turned to bolt upstairs and change.

"Damn, Mrs. Roland," one of them drawled, his smirk widening as his gaze lingered. "Didn't know you were into roleplay."

The others erupted into laughter, some muffling snickers behind their hands, others outright leering.

"Vincent, man, maybe we should give you two some privacy," another joked, elbowing him.

But my husband's pride flared. He grabbed my wrist, yanking me back with a rough jerk.

"Relax," he slurred, his breath reeking of whiskey. "It's my damn house—I'll invite who I want. Forget changing. Go make dinner for the boys."

The words hit me like a slap. Humiliation coiled tight in my chest, but I swallowed it down.

Today was his birthday. His friends were here. I wouldn't make a scene—not in front of them.