CHAPTER 21
Amelia
Lucien’s voice on the phone had been different this morning.
“Ma chérie, could you meet Florin and me at Café Laurent this afternoon? There’s something we need to discuss.”
Not his usual playful tone. Not the seductive warmth I’d grown accustomed to. It was something serious, almost solemn.
“Of course,” I’d said. “What time?”
“Three o’clock. And Amelia? This is important.”
He’d offered to send his car, but I’d declined. I had groceries to pick up, and the cafe wasn’t too far from our apartment.
Now, walking through the Paris streets, I let myself soak in the city one more time. The afternoon sun painted everything golden. Couples strolled hand in hand along the Seine. Street musicians played on corners. The smell of fresh bread wafted from boulangeries.
I loved this walk. I loved Paris.
It had been almost six months since we’d arrived. Six months that felt like a beautiful, impossible dream.
Both Lucien and Florin knew the deal. Six months. That was the arrangement Mark and I had agreed to. And now the time was almost up.
They’d both told me, in their own ways, that they wanted to continue seeing me. Long distance, if necessary.
I saw Florin before he saw me.
He was pacing outside Café Laurent, his usual artistic dishevelment replaced by something more agitated. His hair was pulled back, and he wore a crisp white shirt I’d never seen before. Dress clothes. Like he was attending something important.
The moment he spotted me, his face transformed. That beautiful smile broke across his features, and he rushed over.
“Ma belle,” he murmured, kissing both my cheeks and then lingering at my mouth. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. What’s this about?”
“Come. You’ll see.”
He took my hand and led me inside, through the café to a private booth at the back.
And there, sitting across from Lucien, was Mark.
My breath stopped.
Mark looked... terrible. And somehow more real than he had in months. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair needed a cut. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
The contrast between him and Lucien was stark. Lucien sat composed in a perfectly tailored suit, every hair in place, radiating that effortless confidence. Mark looked like he’d been through a war.
And seeing him like that—vulnerable, broken, desperate—something tugged in my chest. My heart melted a little despite everything.
“Amelia.” Lucien said as he and Mark stood. Lucine gave me a peck on the cheek, and Mark’s eyes lowered to the floor.
I slid into the booth, acutely aware of all three men watching me. Florin sat beside me, Lucien and Mark across from us.
“What’s going on?” I asked, looking between them.
“Mark has something he wants to say to you,” Lucien said. “He asked Florin and me to be here. As witnesses.”
I turned to Mark. His hands were shaking.
“Amelia.” He pulled out a folder, his voice rough. “You gave me six months of an open marriage that I manipulated you into.”
He slid the folder across the table.
“I’m asking you to give me six more months. But on your terms this time. Completely on your terms.”
I opened the folder. Inside was a contract—actual legal documents, notarized and official.
My hands trembled as I read.
The contract was twenty five pages long.
I skimmed through the first few pages, trying to make sense of everything, until I came to the section marked “Conclusion.” It read: So, in conclusion, (1) Mark Davis commits to individual and couples therapy, (2) Mark Davis agrees Amelia Davis can continue seeing Florin and Lucien if she wants while he remains faithful, (3) Mark Davis takes a sabbatical from work to be the primary parent when they return home so Amelia can pursue her modeling/art career, (4) Every decision about their life—where they live, what they do, how they spend time—is hers to make, (5) At the end of six months, Amelia Davis decides: stay married, divorce, or something in between. He accepts whatever she chooses.
I stared at the page, then turned the pages, reading them again and again.
This was real. This was legally binding.
Mark was putting his entire future in my hands.
“I had this drawn up by my lawyer,” Mark said quietly. “It’s been notarized. It’s legally enforceable. Lucien and Florin have copies. They can hold me accountable if I fail to honor any part of it.”
I looked up at Lucien, then Florin. Both nodded.
“Mark contacted us a week ago,” Lucien said. “He asked us to witness this. To ensure he couldn’t back out.”
Florin leaned forward. “Amelia, Mark has made it clear that he’s willing to give you as much time as you need.
He understands you may continue seeing us.
He understands you may ultimately choose not to stay with him.
” His blue eyes were serious. “This is not manipulation. This is a man trying to earn back what he threw away.”
I looked at Mark.
“Amelia, I fucked up.” His voice broke. “I fucked up so badly.”
He stood and came around the table, and before I could react, he was hugging me, his face buried in my shoulder.
And he wept like a child.
His whole body shook with sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
I felt his tears soaking through my blouse, his hands clutching at me like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
And I felt something crack open in my chest.
This was the man I’d fallen in love with as a junior in college. The lanky, nerdy, awkward boy from the dorm across the street who’d spilled coffee on me in the library and spent twenty minutes apologizing.
My first love. My only love, really.
These last six months with Lucien and Florin had been incredible. The sex, the pampering, the way they’d made me feel seen and valued—it had been transformative.
But Mark... Mark was the father of my children. The man who’d held my hand through two pregnancies. Who’d built me a pottery studio with his own hands. Who’d stayed up all night when Noah had croup. Who’d been my partner through fifteen years of life.
My heart still beat for him. Still hurt for him. Still wept for him.
I loved him.
And this gesture—this contract, this public declaration, this complete surrender of power—had melted something in me that I’d thought was frozen solid.
I looked at Lucien, who gave me an almost imperceptible nod and mouthed, “Forgive him.”
I looked at Florin, whose smile was filled with understanding and love.
In that moment, I felt so loved. So supported. By all three of them.
These two extraordinary men who could have kept me for themselves were encouraging me to forgive my husband.
Because they loved me enough to want what was best for me.
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
I pulled back from Mark’s embrace and looked into his red, swollen eyes.
“I forgive you,” I said.
Mark’s breath paused, hope and disbelief coloring his face.
“And I accept you back.” I said.
“Really?” Mark’s voice was barely a whisper. “Really?”
I nodded, and realised I was also crying.
He lifted me off my feet—and spun me around right there in the café, laughing and crying at the same time.
And I laughed too. A full, genuine laugh that felt like light breaking through clouds. A lightness I hadn’t felt since that night in New Jersey when Mark had first proposed the open marriage.
When Mark set me down, Lucien and Florin were smiling too.
Lucien took my hands and kissed them. “You deserve happiness, Amelia. Whatever form that takes.”
Florin hugged me tight. “You’ll always be my muse,” he whispered. “No matter what you choose.”
Then they shook hands with Mark, and left, leaving Mark and me alone in the private booth.
We sat in silence for a moment, both of us processing what had just happened.
“So,” Mark said finally, his voice still shaky. “What do you want to do?”
I thought about it. Thought about the apartment, about the complicated mess of the past six months, about everything that lay ahead.
“I want to see Paris,” I said. “With you.”
We left the café as the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
Mark took my hand—tentative at first, then more confident when I squeezed back.
And we walked toward the Seine like two people who’d lost and found each other in the City of Light.