CHAPTER 20
Mark
Every morning, I woke up before dawn.
I made Amelia’s breakfast—quinoa bowls, avocado toast, whatever I thought she might want that day. I arranged it on a tray with fresh flowers from the market and carried it to our bedroom.
Some days she smiled and thanked me. Most days she ate in silence while scrolling through her phone, probably reading messages from Lucien or Florin.
I left love notes around the apartment. On the bathroom mirror. Tucked into her purse. Slipped between the pages of books she was reading.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Please forgive me.
The flowers I bought wilted and rotted in their vases. Sometimes at night, I found my notes crumpled in the trash.
But I kept trying. Every single day.
Amelia’s demeanor toward me remained distant. I was screwed.
When I left for work each morning, I left knowing what would happen after I was gone. She’d get ready, dress in something beautiful, and leave to be pampered and seduced by Florin or Lucien.
Or both.
The thought used to make me want to put my fist through a wall. Now it just made me sad. And desperate.
At work, I couldn’t escape her.
Amelia’s face was everywhere. The Femme Fatale campaign had become a massive hit—bigger than anyone had anticipated. Her images were on billboards across Paris, in magazines, on digital displays in the Metro.
Amelia in that white shirt with the top buttons undone, just a hint of black lace visible, looking innocently at the camera with those large, beautiful eyes.
Amelia in the pink bunny costume, champagne flute raised to those perfect lips, her curves emphasized in all the right places.
Every man in the office wanted her.
At work parties, at networking events, even in the elevator, men approached me. They’d seen the campaign. They knew we were in an open marriage—office gossip traveled fast, especially when your wife was dating the CEO.
“Hey, Mark, could you give me Amelia’s number?”
“I’d love to take her out sometime.”
“Think she’d be interested in meeting for drinks?”
I turned them all away. Politely at first, then less politely as the requests kept coming.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d wanted an open marriage so I could sleep with other women. Now women threw themselves at me—not because they wanted me, but because they wanted access to Amelia.
One woman at a company cocktail hour had seemed genuinely interested in me. We’d talked for twenty minutes about the campaign, about marketing strategy, about Paris. I’d started to think maybe—
“So, your wife,” she’d interrupted. “Is she seeing women too? Because I’d love her number.”
Zero. The number of women who actually wanted to date me was zero.
And the strange thing was, I didn’t care.
All the jealousy, all the rage, all the possessiveness I’d felt when this started, had been replaced by something else. Regret. Self-loathing. And a desperate, all-consuming need to fix what I’d broken.
I’d begged. I literally got on my knees in our apartment and begged Amelia to take me back.
Last night, I made her favorite, spinach and ricotta lasagna, from scratch. She’d taken a bite and made an approving sound.
“I love you, Amelia,” I’d said, watching her eat. “I really do. I was so stupid.”
“Mm-hmm,” she’d replied, taking another bite.
“Please, Amelia. I can keep begging for forgiveness for the rest of my life, but please, please take me back.”
She set down her fork and looked at me with those beautiful eyes—eyes that used to light up when they saw me, eyes that now looked at me with something like pity.
“I cannot trust you, Mark.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “It’s just a matter of you finding another girl to replace Simone and this whole thing, or something similar, will repeat all over again.”
“No, Amelia. No.” I moved closer, desperate to make her understand. “I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve learned your worth. I cannot think of losing you ever again.”
She’d picked up her plate and walked toward the kitchen. “I don’t know, Mark. I don’t know.”
That was all she said.
But I knew. Sitting there at the table, watching her walk away, I knew what I had to do.
I went into my room and opened my laptop. I pulled up my lawyer’s email address and started typing.