I reached out and stroked her cheek gently.
She made a small sound, a sleepy moan, and shifted slightly toward my touch.
God, I loved her. My sweet, innocent wife.
I was so tired. The jet lag was hitting me hard now, making my limbs feel heavy and my thoughts fuzzy. I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I was too tired to take a shower, so I pulled on my pajamas and slipped into bed beside her. I wrapped my arm around her soft waist, pulling her close.
She mumbled something unintelligible and nestled back against me, fitting perfectly into my arms the way she always did.
In the soft, comfortable familiarity of her breathing, surrounded by her warmth and her vanilla scent, I finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER7
Amelia
The bathroom mirror was foggy from my shower, but I could still see my reflection well enough—wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, skin flushed from the hot water.
Today was the day of the painting exhibition at Galerie Beaumont. I should have been excited. But now all I felt was anger. And hurt. And a crushing sense of betrayal that made it hard to breathe.
I wiped away a tear with the back of my hand before it could fall.
Mark lied to me.
Our entire relationship—fifteen years of marriage—I thought it was built on honesty and the kind of trust that meant we could tell each other anything.
I was so wrong.
Mark wanted an open marriage because he wanted to fuck Simone. His boss’s secretary.
That was the whole reason. The only reason.
And when I’d asked him directly—”Did you suggest this because you want to sleep with someone you know?”—he’d looked me straight in the eye and said no. With such conviction, such apparent honesty, that I’d believed him completely.
What a fool I was.
Two nights ago, Mark had come home late. I’d been in and out of sleep, and he’d slipped into bed next to me like he always did. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me close, and I’d started to relax into his familiar warmth.
Then I smelled it.
Cigarette smoke. Acrid and unmistakable, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his skin.
And underneath that—perfume. Heavy and floral. Not mine.
In that moment, lying in the dark with my husband’s arms around me, I knew.
He’d slept with someone.
The next morning, I woke to Mark’s familiar erection pressed against my ass, his arms still holding me. For one blissful moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Like we were still Mark and Amelia, the couple who fit together perfectly, who loved each other more than anything.
Then reality crashed back.
He’d definitely slept with someone last night.
Over breakfast Mark had told me himself. Casual. Matter-of-fact.
“I had a date last night.”
I’d been too scared to ask who it was. Too terrified of hearing a name and making it all too real.
