CHAPTER 13
Mark
The bar was dimly lit, filled with the low murmur of conversations in French that I couldn’t quite follow and didn’t care to try.
I sat on a stool nursing my third whiskey, feeling pathetic and desperate.
The whole point of this open marriage was supposed to be me opening up possibilities. Seeing other people. Having fun. Experiencing variety.
Instead, all I’d gotten was disappointment after disappointment while my sweet, innocent wife was having the time of her life with a billionaire artist who showered her with diamonds and limousines.
I felt guilty. I felt jealous. I felt like the biggest idiot who’d ever lived.
Simone had been a massive letdown—the bad sex was something I could have lived with, but the backstabbing? That had gone too far.
How could I have been so naive? So dumb?
I’d thrown away everything for nothing.
“Is this seat taken?”
I looked up. A well-dressed woman stood next to the empty stool beside me. She was pretty—sophisticated in that effortless French way, with dark hair in a sleek bob and expensive-looking jewelry.
This could be my chance. Maybe my only chance to salvage something from this disaster.
“No, please,” I said, gesturing to the seat.
She sat down, ordered a glass of wine, and we started talking. Her name was Céline. She worked in finance. She found my American accent charming.
I bought her a drink. Then another.
“So,” she said, leaning closer, “where would you like to go? Your place or mine?”
My heart jumped. “Yours,” I said quickly. Our apartment still smelled like Amelia’s vanilla perfume.
“Perfect. My husband is away on business.” She smiled. “I’m in an open marriage, you see.”
The words hit me like cold water.
“How long have you been in an open marriage?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“More or less from the beginning.” She sipped her wine. “My husband and I were never really satisfied with each other sexually. So instead of cheating, we discussed it openly and decided on an open arrangement. It works well for us.”
“I’m in an open marriage too.” I blurted out.
“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched. “Were you also not satisfied with your wife?”
And that did it.
Something broke inside me. The whiskey, the loneliness, the crushing weight of what I’d done—it all came pouring out.
“No,” I said, my voice cracking. “No, that’s the thing. Amelia—my wife—she kept me so happy. She was perfect. Our life was perfect.”
Céline’s expression shifted from interested to concerned.
“She’s the most amazing woman,” I continued, my words slurring together. “She’s beautiful and kind and talented and she never complained, not once, about anything I did or didn’t do. And I—”
I pulled out my wallet with shaking hands and showed her the photo I kept there. Amelia with Noah and Brook, all of them laughing.
“Your wife is gorgeous,” Céline said carefully.
“Isn’t she?” My eyes were burning. “She’s gorgeous and perfect and I’m losing her. I’ve lost her. To this—this French artist who drives a fucking Aston Martin and buys her diamonds and takes her on yachts and fucks her—”
I was crying now. Actually crying in a Paris bar in front of a stranger.
“I thought I wanted this. I thought I wanted to sleep with other women. But all I want is her. My sweet, innocent Amelia. And now she’s not mine anymore because of this stupid idea, this stupid open marriage that I convinced her to do because I wanted to fuck my boss’s secretary who turned out to be using me anyway—”
“Okay, you need to calm down,” Céline said, looking around nervously.
But I couldn’t stop. I put my head down on the bar and sobbed like a child.
“Open marriage is not for everyone,” Céline said coldly, standing up. “Especially not for losers like you who were just looking for an easy way to cheat but get all emotional and jealous when their wife does the same. You’re pathetic.”
She threw some euros on the bar for her drinks and left.
I kept my head down, tears soaking into my sleeve.
She was right.
I was pathetic.
As long as I was having fun—or thought I was going to have fun—the idea was perfect. The moment Amelia started actually enjoying herself, the whole thing came crashing down.
All because of my manipulative, chauvinistic idea. I’d convinced myself I was being modern and mature, but really I just wanted permission to cheat while expecting Amelia to stay home and wait for me.
I was a pig.
I lifted my head, wiped my face with a cocktail napkin, and stared at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
I had to set things right with Amelia.
I had to win her back.
I didn’t want an open marriage. I wanted my wife back.
But was it still possible? Or had things already gone too far?