If Mark could go out and explore Paris on his terms, so could I. I didn’t need an app or a group or permission from anyone. This was Paris—the city I’d dreamed about visiting my entire life. I wasn’t going to waste it sitting alone in this apartment feeling sorry for myself.
I showered quickly, the water pressure surprisingly strong and hot. In the bedroom, I rifled through my suitcase until I found my favorite pink summer dress I. I pulled it on, added a light cardigan in case the weather turned, and grabbed my purse.
The streets of Le Marais awaited.
And maybe—just maybe—I’d find something in this city that was mine alone.
I locked the door behind me and stepped out into the Paris afternoon, determined to find whatever piece of myself I’d lost somewhere between agreeing to this arrangement and arriving in this beautiful, terrifying city.
I spent the rest of the day strolling along the streets of Paris, taking in the beauty of the city of lights. I was determined not to let anything bring me down. I was alone, but for the first time since we landed, I was not lonely. The crisp summer air and the delicious goat cheese and tomato salad I had at a quaint brassiere were enough to make me feel more positive about the whole situation.
While sipping on a heavenly cup of cappuccino at a cafe overlooking the Seine, I noticed a slip of paper fluttering under the ashtray on my table. I picked it up. It was a flyer for a painting and sculpture exhibition by someone named Florin Blancet. It was in two days in an art gallery in Marais. A quick internet search revealed it was just fifteen minutes away from our apartment. The pictures of some of the paintings were so mesmerising, I couldn’t put the flyer away. Was this a sign from the universe?
Maybe this was the purpose of my trip—to rediscover myself, to explore a new part of the world, and in the process, connecting to the parts of my soul that had stayed hidden under the roles of a wife and mother all these years. At that moment, I decided to explore those parts of me, one day at a time—starting with the painting exhibition.
CHAPTER 6
Mark
The restaurant was everything I’d imagined a Parisian fine dining establishment would be—soft lighting, crisp white tablecloths, the gentle murmur of French conversation flowing around us like music.
Lucien sat across from me, gesturing elegantly with his wine glass as he spoke about the Femme Fatale lipstick line. Our CEO was exactly as I’d pictured him from our video calls—mid-forties, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, exuding that effortless French sophistication that American men could never quite replicate.
“The campaign must capture the essence of desire,” Lucien was saying, his accent making even business jargon sound poetic. “Not manufactured desire, but the real thing. The kind that makes a woman feel powerful, irresistible—”
I tried to focus on his words, but something was happening under the table that made concentration impossible.
Simone’s leg had found mine.
She was sitting to my right, ostensibly taking notes on her tablet, but her bare calf was sliding up and down against my leg in slow, deliberate strokes.
I glanced at her. She met my eyes with a look of pure, unapologetic lust. Her red lips curved into a knowing smile, and she pressed her leg more firmly against mine.
This is it,I thought, my pulse quickening.This is where my open marriage begins.
“Mark? Your thoughts on the target demographic?”
Lucien’s voice pulled me back. I cleared my throat, shifted in my seat, which only seemed to encourage Simone’s exploration, and tried to remember what we’d been discussing.
“Right. Yes. The target demographic.” I took a long sip of wine. “Women aged twenty-five to forty-five who want to feel—” Simone’s foot had reached my thigh now, “—confident and sensual in their everyday lives.”
“Précisément,” Lucien said, seeming satisfied.
The dinner lasted another hour. Every course felt endless as Simone continued her game under the table, her fingers occasionally brushing my hand when she reached for her water glass, her perfume—heavy and floral—overwhelming my senses every time she leaned close to show me something on her tablet.
Finally, finally, we were saying goodnight to Lucien on the sidewalk.
“Simone will coordinate with you on the initial concepts,” Lucien said, shaking my hand. “She has excellent instincts for what women want.”
“I’m sure she does,” I managed.
Lucien departed in a sleek black car, and suddenly it was just Simone and me on the Paris street, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the distance.
“My apartment is close,” she said, her voice dropping to that throaty register that had captivated me during our video call. “Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee?”
Simone’s apartment was a study in minimalist chic—all white walls and glass surfaces and uncomfortable-looking furniture.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she purred, disappearing into what I assumed was the bedroom.
