The Boss Marked My Wife as 24 My Ultimate Revenge

"Babe, my boss won't let you touch me. He's inspecting me tomorrow." A man being banned from touching his own wife—hearing this happen to my best friend shattered my entire worldview. He even told me his wife’s boss had built a private SnapChat "harem" of twenty-four women. When I saw the screenshot of that group, all the blood drained from my face. Because the twenty-fourth woman in that group looked exactly like my wife! Two nights ago, my childhood friend Tyler broke down while we were having beers. He said he had tried to get intimate with his wife, only to be coldly rejected. Her excuse? Her boss had ordered her not to let her husband lay a single finger on her. Worse, the boss ran a physical inspection on her every single day. If she was caught being "unfaithful" to him with her own husband, there would be severe consequences. To be honest, the utter absurdity of it left me completely dumbfounded. Since when did cheating wives guard their purity so proudly for their side pieces? Tyler wept like a broken child, sobbing uncontrollably. "That bastard is a monster! She's my wife—why the hell can't I touch her? He already keeps more than twenty female employees on a leash. Why won't he let my wife go?!" Furious and shaking, he shoved his phone in front of me, showing me a screenshot of a SnapChat group. The content completely made my stomach turn. Those twenty-three women weren't just chatting casually—whenever the boss showed up, they all addressed him as "Hubby," desperately competing for his attention like concubines in an ancient palace. Suddenly, a photo in the thread caught my eye. My pupils shrank violently. The woman in the photo was my wife, Hannah! How was that even possible? This group was clearly a billionaire's private harem. Every single woman in it was his personal toy. So how on earth did my wife end up there? The photo had been posted by the boss himself, welcoming a new member: "Here is Number Twenty-Four. Treat your new sister well." "Hi everyone, I'm Number Twenty-Four. So glad to be part of the family. I promise to serve our Hubby well alongside all of you." There were no real names, only numbers. The first to join was Number One, and my wife, the latest addition, was Number Twenty-Four. That was where the screenshots ended. I stared at the screen, pale and frozen, my heart plummeting into a bottomless abyss. I couldn't hear another word Tyler said. I mumbled a hasty excuse and rushed straight home, desperate to confront Hannah. The house was pitch-black and empty. I called her phone. It was turned off! Recalling the photo I had just seen, a sickening thought crept into my mind: Was Hannah at her boss's place right this second? Once suspicion takes root in a man's heart, it spreads like wildfire, gnawing at every piece of sanity. I redialed her number every few minutes, but it went straight to voicemail. It wasn't until past nine that night that the front door finally clicked open. Hannah walked in, clutching her lower back, her face drained of energy. And right there on her collarbone and neck were several glaring red marks—unmistakable hickeys! The sight made my blood boil. I was now certain she had spent the entire day in bed with another man. "Hannah! Did you have fun with your boss today? Leaving me hanging and coming home this late!" I roared. "Do you still care about this home? Do you even remember you have a husband?!" Hannah stiffened, panicking for a fraction of a second. "Mark... what are you talking about? I don't understand." Seeing her act innocent only fueled my rage. I thrust Tyler's screenshot right in front of her face. "Don't understand? The proof is right here! Take a good look!" "Recognize this photo? Isn't that you, Number Twenty-Four?!" Seeing the screenshot, Hannah turned ghost-white, fumbling frantically. "No! Mark, that's not me at all! I've never joined a gross group like that!" "If you don't believe me... here, check my phone!" She hurriedly unlocked her phone and shoved it into my hands. I snatched it and dug through every messaging app, secondary profile, and hidden folder. There was no trace of the group. What was going on? Hannah looked at me timidly. "Mark, where did you even get that screenshot?" After a pause, I told her about Tyler's breakdown. Hannah immediately jumped in. "Mark, Lily and I work at totally different companies! How could I possibly be in her boss's group?" "That woman just happens to look like me, and with all the beauty filters on, anyone can look similar." I paused. She was right. Tyler's wife, Lily, worked at Vance Enterprises, while Hannah was employed at DreamCorp. They had completely different bosses who had nothing to do with each other. A slight wave of relief washed over me, but my expression remained dark. "Then why did you come home so late with your phone off? And what the hell are those marks on your neck?"Those suspicious marks couldn't be brushed off so easily. Hannah quickly replied, "My best friend invited me over, but the apartment elevator broke down. I was trapped inside for hours with zero cell service! The rescue crew didn't get us out until after eight." She told me to look up the local news. Sure enough, a local page had posted a video about an elevator outage in that exact neighborhood, showing passengers being freed around eight o'clock—matching her story perfectly. "And these red marks are just nasty bug bites from waiting in that stuffy elevator shaft, not hickeys." She tilted her head to show me, and indeed, there were tiny inflamed bumps on her skin. No matter what flaw I pointed out, she had a smooth, perfectly structured excuse ready. She rattled them off without blinking, as if she had rehearsed them a hundred times. Instead of putting my mind at ease, her flawless alibis only made me more certain: Hannah was hiding something massive. Sure enough, after Hannah stripped down and fell into a deep sleep, I noticed something when I pulled back the covers. Right above her tailbone, drawn in dark, permanent ink, was a number. 24! I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white, nearly losing my mind. This was no coincidence. A facial resemblance could be a fluke, but the exact number couldn't be! My wife was truly a member of that sick boss's harem—she was Number Twenty-Four! Staring at the ink stamped onto her intimate skin felt like a brutal slap in the face. She hadn't even bothered to scrub it off. She was fearless, totally convinced I was too weak to do anything about it. Did she really think I was a doormat who would just roll over? Why should some scumbag CEO get away with this?! Looking at Hannah sleeping soundly, every fiber of my being screamed to rip her out of bed. But I forced myself to stop. If I confronted her now, she’d only spin another web of lies. It was pointless. I needed irrefutable proof. When the time came, I would cut ties cleanly. A woman who had betrayed our vows didn't deserve to be my wife for another second. First thing the next morning, I hired a private investigator to track Hannah's every move. Most importantly, I needed to know: why was an employee of DreamCorp inside the private harem of Vance Enterprises' CEO? What dark secrets was she keeping behind my back? The investigator took three whole days to get back to me. Those three days were pure torture. Not only did Hannah leave early and return late every day, but each time she walked through the door, she carried unmistakable traces of physical intimacy. Even her silk stockings and lace underwear would mysteriously vanish. What she was doing out there was glaringly obvious. Yet whenever I questioned her, she fired back with polished, airtight excuses that left me choking on my words. Finally, on the third day, the investigator called with the complete truth. Before explaining, he handed me a flash drive and told me to brace myself. I plugged it into my phone with an adapter. The folder was filled with dozens of video files. I tapped one at random. The moment the footage played, fury threatened to blow the top off my skull—the video showed Hannah enthusiastically getting down with another man! And that man was Lily’s boss, Victor Vance! The investigator then opened another file. It was another explicit video, but when the camera panned to the man's face, my vision blurred with shock. The man was Hannah’s direct supervisor at DreamCorp—Keith Ward. Hannah hadn't just cheated with one man. She had cheated with two!According to the private investigator, Hannah's first affair had been with her boss, Keith Ward. Keith and Victor Vance, the ruthless CEO of Vance Enterprises, were longtime drinking buddies. During a private executive party, Victor took an instant liking to Hannah. Keith, playing the "generous" host, casually gifted Hannah to him like an expensive bottle of wine. That was how Hannah officially became part of Victor's private harem. Keith was bad enough, using his power to sleep with subordinates, but Victor was an outright sociopath with an insane god complex. Once he slept with a woman, he forbade anyone else from touching her—including her lawful husband. Victor even employed a private medical team. Every single day, he gathered all twenty-four women to undergo an intimate physical checkup by his medical staff. If any woman was found to have slept with her husband the night before, she would face terrifying retaliation. None of those women dared to resist him. In fact, they fought each other to please him. Victor didn't just hold blackmail on them—he showered anyone who kept him happy with unfathomable amounts of cash, luxury cars, and real estate. The truth was buried deep beneath non-disclosure agreements and payoffs. It had taken all of my investigator's underground connections to dig it out. Learning all of this nearly tore my sanity apart. I had never imagined someone could be so depraved, so utterly vile. To satisfy his sick ego, he had enslaved twenty-four married women, tearing apart twenty-four innocent families. And I was one of those ruined men! I was never a man to hesitate. With the undeniable proof in hand, I immediately printed out a set of divorce papers. Once trust is broken, it's gone forever. I refused to let this badge of shame stay on my head for another second. When I slapped the divorce papers on the kitchen counter, Hannah looked panicked for a second, but she quickly regained her composure. "Mark," she said flatly, "it seems you already know." I glared at her, my voice dripping with venom. "Don't say my name! You don't have the right!" "Selling your dignity for dirty money, letting yourself be passed around like a cheap piece of cargo! I have no use for a shameless whore like you!" "Sign these papers right now. We are done. Completely done!" Hannah didn't even glance at the document. She grabbed the papers, ripped them into halves, and tossed them into the trash. "Divorce? Mr. Vance said I'm not allowed to." Hearing that made my chest explode with anger. "He said you can't, so you won't? Who the fuck does he think he is?!" Hannah crossed her arms with smug confidence. "Because Mr. Vance has a fetish for married women. He hates divorced divorcees. To keep him happy, I will never divorce you." I pointed a trembling finger at her, my teeth grinding together. "Look at yourself! How are you any different from a dog on a leash? You threw away your entire self-respect for some cash!" Hannah let out a cold smirk. "Self-respect? How much is that worth per pound? Can self-respect put food on the table?" "Mark, I know this hurts your tiny pride. But let's make a deal: keep your mouth shut and stay married to me, and I'll give you a third of whatever Mr. Vance gives me." "If I remember right, you're locked into a thirty-year mortgage and a heavy car loan, aren't you? If you play along, you could pay off that entire house in less than two years. How about it?" Her words hit me like a physical blow. Back when we got married, I drained my savings for the down payment, locking myself into thirty years of relentless mortgage payments. My salary barely covered our expenses, and every month felt like a suffocating grind just to keep our heads above water. And now, thirty years of back-breaking debt could be completely wiped out in just two years—if I simply swallowed my pride and wore a green hat? My dignity on one side, and the crushing weight of reality on the other. I froze in utter turmoil."Mark, be smart and weigh your options," Hannah urged, her voice sickeningly sweet. "That's thirty years of mortgage payments, not to mention your car loan. Paying it off in two years means you get to skip forty-eight years of wage-slave misery." "Just look the other way for a couple of years, and you walk away with a paid-off house and a luxury car. Why throw away the easiest payday of your life?" Every word she spoke felt like a heavy hammer smashing into my skull. Now I understood why Tyler's wife had been so brazen. The bosses had completely trapped their husbands by the throat, exploiting their financial desperation. Tyler didn't dare ask for a divorce because he was drowning in debt too—and worse, he actually worked at Vance Enterprises. If he fought back, he’d be fired on the spot and blacklisted across the entire industry. So he had no choice but to smile, swallow the humiliation, and let his wife's boss play god. The other twenty-plus husbands were probably trapped in the exact same corporate web, forced into submission by predatory wealth. Part of me was tempted by the financial freedom, but my core principles violently rebelled. I was a man. If I willingly petted my own head while another man took my wife, what was left of my manhood? Yet, if I refused, that crushing debt would drown me alive... "I... I need time to think," I choked out, hating how pathetic I sounded. It was the most spineless sentence I had ever uttered in my entire life. My wife was cheating openly, telling me she would continue to do so, forbidding me from walking away, and I couldn't even slam the door in her face. Hannah smirked, utterly convinced she had won. Nobody in debt could ever turn down an offer like that. She wasn't afraid of my refusal at all. "Fine. I'll give you time. But only three days." "Don't say I didn't warn you: if you don't agree in three days, I'll just divorce you and quickly marry someone else. You're not irreplaceable." "There are plenty of naive, desperate guys at the office. I can easily find a pushover to play the role of the devoted husband." "The only reason I'm offering this to you is that I still have some history with you, and Mr. Vance hates the drama of dealing with second-time divorcees. Don't flatter yourself." I scoffed internally. Sentimental history? She just didn't want the inconvenience of finding a new puppet. "I hear you," I muttered. "I'll give you an answer." Now that the mask was off, Hannah dropped all pretenses. Fearing I might force myself on her and jeopardize her "clean checkup" tomorrow, she kicked me out of our master bedroom, ordering me to sleep on the sofa bed in the guest room. Staring at the dark ceiling, my heart felt heavy as lead. I couldn't believe the sweet, gentle woman I had met on a blind date had turned into such a calculating monster. Back then, she had worn a simple white summer dress, smiling softly like a ray of pure sunshine. Who could have known that beneath that angelic facade lay such rotten depravity? The private investigator had revealed that she started sleeping with Keith during our second year of marriage. She had played the innocent, loving wife so well that I never suspected a thing. If Victor's bizarre harem hadn't come to light, I might have spent my whole life living in her web of lies. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, torn apart by indecision. Until Victor Vance personally walked into my office the next day—and made up my mind for me.