CHAPTER 11
Mark
Lucien stood in front of the mood board I’d spent three days preparing, arms crossed, his expression thoughtful.
“The models are beautiful, of course,” he said. “But this,” he gestured at the images of France’s top models, their lips perfectly painted with our new Femme Fatale lipstick line, “this lacks authenticity. Real emotion.”
I stared at the board, trying to see what he saw. Or rather, what he didn’t see.
“These women are perfect,” I said. “They’re aspirational. Isn’t that what sells cosmetics?”
Lucien turned to me, one eyebrow raised. “The perfection is the problem. It is too corporate. Too American. We sell dreams, yes, but dreams that women can see themselves in.” He tapped one of the images. “This woman—she is beautiful, but she is not real. She is a fantasy no one can touch.”
“So you want... what? Regular women?”
“I want real beauty. Real desire. Real women.” Lucien moved closer, his voice dropping. “I want a campaign that makes a woman look at our lipstick and think, ‘This will make me feel as powerful as I truly am,’ not ‘This will make me look like someone I can never be.’”
I nodded slowly, but inside I was completely lost.
Who was this “real woman” Lucien kept talking about? Every successful cosmetics campaign I’d ever seen featured models with perfect bone structure, flawless skin, bodies that had never carried children or aged past twenty-five.
And that’s what I was trying to portray in the test campaign. I had tried what worked in the cosmetics industry, but clearly, it was not working for my boss.
Lucien wasn’t happy.
And I was completely out of ideas.
A knock on the conference room door interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
“Come in,” Lucien called.
Simone entered, carrying a tray with coffee. She was dressed in another one of her skimpy outfits. A tight skirt that barely covered her thighs, a blouse unbuttoned just a touch too far.
“I thought you might need this,” she said, her voice dropping into that throaty register as she set a cup in front of us.
Lucien nodded, took his cup of coffee, and as he walked out of the room, he said- “I want a real woman, Mark. A real woman.”
Simone looked at me with a puzzled look as she handed me my cup. She moved, her overly sweet perfume overwhelming in the small space.
“You look very tired, Mark,” she said, her hand resting on my shoulder.
I was tired. Exhausted, actually. I’d barely slept since watching Amelia leave with Florin two nights ago. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that young, perfect bastard with his hand on my wife’s ass.
“I’m stressed about this campaign,” I said. Since Amelia was too busy these days I needed someone to talk to. Simone looked interested enough, so I continued. “Lucien has lost his mind over this ‘real woman’ concept. I don’t know what he wants.”
Simone listened, her face a mask of concern. Then she moved behind me and started massaging my shoulders.
It felt good. Not amazing, not the way Amelia’s hands felt when she worked the knots out of my neck after a long day. But nice enough.
“Why don’t we have lunch?” I suggested. “Get out of the office for a bit?”
Simone’s face lit up. “I would love that.”
The café was small and crowded, frequented by office workers on their lunch breaks. We’d gotten a table near the restroom. Hardly romantic, with the constant traffic of people walking past, but then, romance with Simone was least of my concerns.
Instead, I was thinking about Amelia. I thought about all the romantic dates I used to take her on. Candlelit dinners and weekend brunches. And all the picnics in the park with the kids.
“So tell me more about Lucien’s vision,” Simone said, picking at her salad. “What exactly does he want?”
I took a bite of my sandwich and explained the whole “real beauty, real women” concept again. Simone nodded along, asking questions, seeming genuinely interested.
Then I noticed her phone light up on the table. She glanced at it quickly and started texting, her fingers flying across the screen.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“No one,” she said quickly, setting the phone down.
A few minutes later, she excused herself to the restroom.
As soon as she was gone, her phone buzzed again. The screen lit up with a new message.
I shouldn’t have looked.
But I did.
The message was from someone named Hugo, and even though most of it was in French, I could see my name in the text.
Something about that didn’t sit well with me.
I quickly pulled out my phone, took a photo of the message, and opened a translation app.
The French text converted to English on my screen:
Thanks babe for telling me all the secrets of this campaign. Now it’s time to steal the job from Mark! I owe you an all-you-can-shop date. But limited to 100 euros.
The message was followed by a kiss emoji and a wink.
My blood ran cold.
When Simone returned, I was still staring at my phone, rage building in my chest.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, sliding back into her seat.
“Who’s Hugo?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“The message on your phone. From Hugo. Who is he?”
She laughed nervously, reaching for her phone. “Oh, that’s just an old flame. He wants to hook up. You know how it is.”
She leaned forward, her hand finding mine across the table. “Are you jealous, Mark? You look so cute when you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? For you?” I pulled my hand back. “You’re out of your mind.”
I showed her my phone with the translated message.
“Who are you giving all our inside information to? And who’s trying to steal my job?”
Simone’s flirtatious smile vanished. She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“Hugo,” she said. “We hook up sometimes. He’s in advertising, and he wants to move up in marketing.
He told me to get as much information from you as possible about what Lucien wants from this lipstick campaign.
” She shrugged. “It’s the biggest launch in Paris fashion and cosmetics this year. Hugo wants to get in on it.”
I stared at her, fury and disgust warring in my chest.
This woman—this woman I’d thought about for almost a year, this woman I’d used as an excuse to open my marriage—had been using me the entire time.
“You—” I started.
“Oh my God!”
Simone was looking out the window, her mouth hanging open.
“Don’t change the subject,” I snapped.
“No, Mark, look!” She pointed.
I turned around, and my mouth fell open too.
Through the glass walls of the café, I could see the parking lot. And there, walking side by side, were Amelia and Florin.
Behind them were four people carrying shopping bags. Not just any bags. Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Chanel. More bags than I could count, overflowing with designer clothes, handbags, boxes that could only contain watches or jewelry.
Another person carried a bucket with champagne on ice. Another held boxes from the finest patisseries in Paris—chocolates, truffles, elaborate desserts.
They were walking toward a limousine. Not a car, not even a nice car—a stretch limousine, black and gleaming in the afternoon sun.
A chauffeur opened the door for them.
And Amelia—
Amelia looked so happy.
She had a bounce in her step I hadn’t seen in years. She was smiling that beautiful, radiant smile that used to be reserved for me. The smile she’d had when we were just Mark and Amelia, before jobs and mortgages and the weight of adult life had dimmed it.
That smile had disappeared when she was with me. But here it was, bright and real, for him.
Florin had his hand on the small of her back—possessive, protective. She was wearing a different diamond necklace than the one I’d seen yesterday morning.
The chauffeur loaded all the bags into the trunk. The champagne and desserts went into the car with them. Then the door closed, and the limousine pulled away smoothly, disappearing into Paris traffic.
I sat frozen, my sandwich forgotten, my coffee going cold.
“How did she even find him?” Simone’s voice was sharp with jealousy. “Florin Blanchet is…he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in Paris. Women throw themselves at him constantly, and he ignores all of them. How did your frumpy little wife—”
“Shut up, you jealous bitch,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.
Simone’s mouth snapped shut, her face flushing with anger.
“She’s Amelia,” I said quietly, still staring at the spot where the limousine had been. “And you’re just... just Simone.”
Simone stood up abruptly, grabbing her purse. “How dare you,”
“Get lost, Simone. And tell that latest guy you’re sleeping with—Hugo—that he cannot and will not get my job.” I looked at her finally, letting all my disgust show on my face. “You used me. We’re done. Don’t come near me again unless it’s for actual work.”
“You’re an asshole,” she hissed.
“And you’re a conniving snake who was never worth an open marriage.”
She stormed out of the café, her heels clicking angrily against the floor.
I sat there alone at the table near the restroom, surrounded by office workers on their lunch breaks, and tried to process what I’d just seen.
Florin was showering Amelia with gifts I could never afford. Taking her places I could never take her. Making her smile in ways I’d forgotten how to.
And it was my fault.
All of it was my fault.