CHAPTER 7
Amelia
The bathroom mirror was foggy from my shower, but I could still see my reflection well enough—wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, skin flushed from the hot water.
Today was the day of the painting exhibition at Galerie Beaumont. I should have been excited. But now all I felt was anger. And hurt. And a crushing sense of betrayal that made it hard to breathe.
I wiped away a tear with the back of my hand before it could fall.
Mark lied to me.
Our entire relationship—fifteen years of marriage—I thought it was built on honesty and the kind of trust that meant we could tell each other anything.
I was so wrong.
Mark wanted an open marriage because he wanted to fuck Simone. His boss’s secretary.
That was the whole reason. The only reason.
And when I’d asked him directly—”Did you suggest this because you want to sleep with someone you know?”—he’d looked me straight in the eye and said no. With such conviction, such apparent honesty, that I’d believed him completely.
What a fool I was.
Two nights ago, Mark had come home late. I’d been in and out of sleep, and he’d slipped into bed next to me like he always did. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me close, and I’d started to relax into his familiar warmth.
Then I smelled it.
Cigarette smoke. Acrid and unmistakable, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin.
And underneath that—perfume. Heavy and floral. Not mine.
In that moment, lying in the dark with my husband’s arms around me, I knew.
He’d slept with someone.
The next morning, I woke to Mark’s familiar erection pressed against my ass, his arms still holding me. For one blissful moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Like we were still Mark and Amelia, the couple who fit together perfectly, who loved each other more than anything.
Then reality crashed back.
He’d definitely slept with someone last night.
Over breakfast Mark had told me himself. Casual. Matter-of-fact.
“I had a date last night.”
I’d been too scared to ask who it was. Too terrified of hearing a name and making it all too real.
“How did it go?” I had asked instead.
“Fine. It was fine.” He’d taken a sip of coffee. He didn’t look into my eyes through the rest of breakfast.
“What about you?” he asked after a while, still looking into his coffee mug. “Did you find someone to date yet?” His voice sounded unsure, almost full of hope that I’d say no. Or maybe I imagined it.
“No.” I said. Because I genuinely didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. I loved Mark too much. I just wanted to go back home to our peaceful suburb in New Jersey, to our kids and our life and pretend this whole nightmare had never happened.
But then came yesterday evening.
There was a dinner with Mark’s colleagues, a welcome event for the new team members. I’d worn a simple black dress and tried to smile and be charming while inside I was screaming.
Oliver was there. Mark’s friend from the New York office, in Paris for a week for client meetings. I liked Oliver well enough—he’d always been friendly to me, remembering my birthday, asking about my pottery business.
Between drinks, Oliver had pulled me aside.
“I have to say, Amelia, you’re a saint.” He’d been a few glasses in, his words slightly slurred.
“Isn’t Mark so lucky that you agreed to this whole open marriage thing?
And for him to finally get to date Simone—man, he’s been wanting to sleep with her for almost a year.
I wish my wife was as understanding as you. ”
I felt dizzy and disoriented at those words.
Almost a year?
Mark had been wanting Simone for almost a year. Long before Paris. Long before he’d pitched this arrangement as some mature, modern way to strengthen our marriage.
It was always about her.
And he’d looked me in the eye and lied.
Now, standing in our bathroom, I felt something harden in my chest. Something cold and sharp and determined.
If Mark could pursue what he wanted without thinking about how it would destroy me, then I could do the same.
I wasn’t going to sit in this apartment crying while my husband fucked his way through Paris.
I was going to that gallery. And I was going to look fucking incredible while doing it.
I dried off and went to the closet, pushing past the sensible clothes I’d packed—the jeans and t-shirts and comfortable cardigans that made me look like exactly what I was: a suburban mom who’d lost herself somewhere between diaper changes and PTA meetings.
My hand landed on the red skirt. It was tight—almost too tight—hugging every curve of my hips and ass. I’d almost returned it after I bought it on a whim two years ago , thinking it was too much, too bold, too not-me.
But now? Now it was perfect.
I pulled it on, along with a white silk blouse.
The fabric was semi-transparent, revealing the lace of my bra underneath.
I felt sensuous in ways I’d not felt in a long time.
I felt powerful. Like I was someone worth looking at.
I slipped on black heels that gave me an extra three inches of height and attitude.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.
This wasn’t frumpy Amelia, the pottery mom who lived in clay-stained t-shirts and messy buns.
This was someone else. Someone who refused to be apologetic about her body and about her curves.
I loved my curves. I loved every inch of my body—the softness, the fullness, the way I looked like a woman who’d lived and loved and created life.
And I was going to dress to show it.
Galerie Beaumont was tucked away on a quiet street in the Marais, its large windows overlooking quaint fashion boutiques.
I walked in, my heels clicking against the polished floor, and immediately felt the eyes on me. A few well-dressed couples glanced my way. An older man in a tweed jacket did a double-take.
Good. Let them look.
The gallery was beautiful—distressed white brick walls, perfect lighting, and paintings that made my breath stop. I moved through the space, letting the art wash over me, and found myself stopping in front of a large canvas.
A nude woman. Curvy, soft, real. Not a model’s body but a body that had lived.
There was something innocent in her face.
She had a slight smile and her eyes were closed as if she was lost in a dream.
But her body— her body was pure sensuality.
She had lush breasts and full hips, and the curves of her stomach were painted with such love and attention that you couldn’t help but see an almost devotional beauty in it.
I stood there, transfixed, tears pricking my eyes.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I turned.
A younger man stood there—late twenties, perhaps thirty at most. He had an ethereal quality to his features, like he’d stepped out of one of the paintings himself.
He had high cheekbones, a refined jawline, an elegant nose that Renaissance sculptors would have wept to capture.
His eyes were a striking gray-blue, and his dark hair fell in soft waves that he’d tucked behind one ear.
He was beautiful. Almost painfully so.
“What do you like about the painting?” he asked in accented English, his voice soft and melodic.
I looked back at the canvas, trying to find the words. “I love how the artist captured the way a woman could be both innocent and lustful without it looking cheap or exploitative. She’s... she’s a goddess. Real and human and divine all at once.”
The young man smiled, and it transformed his face. “You understand it perfectly.”
“The artist is very talented.”
“I am the artist.” He extended his hand. “Florin Blanchet.”
My mouth fell open slightly. “You painted this?”
“Oui. And several others here.” He gestured around the gallery, but his eyes never left my face. “May I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“You are the most beautiful woman I have seen in a long time.” He said it simply, as if commenting on the weather. “From the moment you walked into this gallery, I have been captivated. I have been so mesmerized by your beauty and your presence that I could not help but follow you around.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “I—”
He stepped closer and smiled. “I assure you, I never do this. I am not the type of man who approaches women in galleries and tells them they are beautiful. But you...” He shook his head, almost wonderingly.
“I have been searching for my next muse for a very long time. Someone I can know deeply, someone who inspires me, someone I can treat like a gift from God. And the moment I saw you, I thought—she is the one.”
No one had ever said words like this to me. Not even Mark, not even in those early days when we were falling in love.
No one had ever looked at my body, my real, curvy, stretch-marked body, and called me a goddess.
“I...” I couldn’t find words.
“I would very much like to paint you,” Florin said. “If you would allow it.”
“A nude?” The word came out breathless.
He smiled again. “Oui, mademoiselle. If that is what you want. But before that, I want to treat you like the goddess that you are.” His eyes were intense, sincere. “Will you go out on a date with me? Tonight?”
Then his gaze dropped to my left hand, to the wedding ring I still wore.
“Ah. Only if your partner agrees, of course.”
My partner. My husband. The man who’d lied to me, who was probably at this very moment planning his next date with Simone.
Mark didn’t appreciate me. He’d made that abundantly clear.
If he thought I wouldn’t be able to get dates, that I’d sit at home lonely and desperate while he explored Paris, he was wrong.
So wrong.
Why should I be the one wasting time crying over his betrayal?
I looked at Florin. At his beautiful face, his sincere eyes, the way he was looking at me like I was art he wanted to study and worship, and made my decision.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll go out with you tonight.”
His smile could have lit the entire city.
“You have made me the happiest man in Paris,” he said softly. “I will pick you up at eight?”
I gave him my address, and he kissed my hand, like something out of a movie, before excusing himself to speak with the gallery owner.
I stood there, my hand still tingling where his lips had touched, and wondered if I really just did get asked out by this mysterious, handsome french artist standing in front of me, or was it all just a fairy tale dream.