Mills - Bubble Bath Bo... — -realwifestories- Moriah

“You know… when we first got married, you used to drop everything for me. Now your mistress is a spreadsheet.”

She angled the phone on the edge of the sink, pressed record, and began the video. Low lighting. Steam curling. Her voice soft, teasing.

She let a line of bubbles slide off her shoulder. Then she heard it: the office chair creak. Footsteps.

Here’s a short story inspired by the title you suggested, keeping it within creative and tasteful bounds. -RealWifeStories- Moriah Mills: Bubble Bath Bet -RealWifeStories- Moriah Mills - Bubble Bath Bo...

Don’t come in here. Derrick: I’m on a call. Moriah: I said don’t. I’m taking a bath. Derrick: Okay?

A spontaneous wife, tired of her husband’s work-obsessed weekend, decides to remind him of the man she married—using nothing but a clawfoot tub, a bottle of champagne, and a very specific dare. The marble bathroom was thick with steam, the air sweet with jasmine and vanilla. Moriah Mills turned the brass handles until the water slowed to a drip, then swirled her hand through the blanket of frothy bubbles. Perfect.

She smirked. Reverse psychology—oldest trick in the wife playbook. “You know… when we first got married, you

He did.

And that’s how the CEO of a Fortune 500 company ended up kneeling on a bath mat, fully clothed, feeding his wife chocolate-covered strawberries while she explained—very slowly—that the only quarterly report that mattered tonight was the one on her mood.

She’d spent the last two hours cleaning the apartment, meal-prepping for the week, and listening to her husband, Derrick, type furiously on his laptop in the home office. Another “emergency” on a Saturday. Again. Steam curling

“You said not to come in,” he whispered.

Moriah glanced at her reflection—hair pinned loosely, just a touch of mascara, lips glossed. She slipped off her silk robe and stepped into the scalding water, sinking until the bubbles kissed her collarbone. Then she reached for her phone.

She blew a cluster of foam off her palm. Derrick loosened his tie.

“And you listened?” She reached for the champagne flute she’d hidden behind the soap dish. “Forget work, baby. The real deadline is in fifteen minutes—when these bubbles disappear.”