“How did it go?” I had asked instead.
“Fine. It was fine.” He’d taken a sip of coffee. He didn’t look into my eyes through the rest of breakfast.
“What about you?” he asked after a while, still looking into his coffee mug. “Did you find someone to date yet?” His voice sounded unsure, almost full of hope that I’d say no. Or maybe I imagined it.
“No.” I said. Because I genuinely didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. I loved Mark too much. I just wanted to go back home to our peaceful suburb in New Jersey, to our kids and our life and pretend this whole nightmare had never happened.
But then came yesterday evening.
There was a dinner with Mark’s colleagues, a welcome event for the new team members. I’d worn a simple black dress and tried to smile and be charming while inside I was screaming.
Oliver was there. Mark’s friend from the New York office, in Paris for a week for client meetings. I liked Oliver well enough—he’d always been friendly to me, remembering my birthday, asking about my pottery business.
Between drinks, Oliver had pulled me aside.
“I have to say, Amelia, you’re a saint.” He’d been a few glasses in, his words slightly slurred. “Isn’t Mark so lucky that you agreed to this whole open marriage thing? And for him to finally get to date Simone—man, he’s been wanting to sleep with her for almost a year. I wish my wife was as understanding as you.”
I felt dizzy and disoriented at those words.
Almost a year?
Mark had been wanting Simone for almost a year. Long before Paris. Long before he’d pitched this arrangement as some mature, modern way to strengthen our marriage.
It was always about her.
And he’d looked me in the eye and lied.
Now, standing in our bathroom, I felt something harden in my chest. Something cold and sharp and determined.
If Mark could pursue what he wanted without thinking about how it would destroy me, then I could do the same.
I wasn’t going to sit in this apartment crying while my husband fucked his way through Paris.
I was going to that gallery. And I was going to look fucking incredible while doing it.
I dried off and went to the closet, pushing past the sensible clothes I’d packed—the jeans and t-shirts and comfortable cardigans that made me look like exactly what I was: a suburban mom who’d lost herself somewhere between diaper changes and PTA meetings.
My hand landed on the red skirt. It was tight—almost too tight—hugging every curve of my hips and ass. I’d almost returned it after I bought it on a whim two years ago , thinking it was too much, too bold, too not-me.
But now? Now it was perfect.
I pulled it on, along with a white silk blouse. The fabric was semi-transparent, revealing the lace of my bra underneath. I felt sensuous inways I’d not felt in a long time. I felt powerful. Like I was someone worth looking at. I slipped on black heels that gave me an extra three inches of height and attitude.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.
This wasn’t frumpy Amelia, the pottery mom who lived in clay-stained t-shirts and messy buns.
This was someone else. Someone who refused to be apologetic about her body and about her curves.
I loved my curves. I loved every inch of my body—the softness, the fullness, the way I looked like a woman who’d lived and loved and created life.
And I was going to dress to show it.
Galerie Beaumont was tucked away on a quiet street in the Marais, its large windows overlooking quaint fashion boutiques.
I walked in, my heels clicking against the polished floor, and immediately felt the eyes on me. A few well-dressed couples glanced my way. An older man in a tweed jacket did a double-take.
Good. Let them look.
