I moved toward her, intending to kiss her, to pull her close and breathe in her scent.
She turned her face away.
“Sorry, I don’t want to mess up my lipstick for my date.” She said with a smile.
The world stopped.
“Wha—what date?” I stammered, my heart dropping into my stomach.
“Oh, I forgot to mention! I found a date, honey.” Her voice was bright, cheerful. “That saves you so much effort trying to fix me up with someone from your work. You can use that time to find more dates for yourself instead.”
At that very moment, the doorbell rang.
Amelia’s face lit up with genuine excitement. “Oh, I think that’s him!” She was almost bouncing. “I figured it would be okay if he picked me up here?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just moved to the door and opened it.
I stood frozen in the kitchen, the pasta sauce bubbling behind me.
The man at the door was... absolutely perfect.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a French fashion magazine. He looked probably ten years younger than Amelia. Dark hair artfully tousled, gray-blue eyes, the kind of bone structure that made him almost too beautiful to be real.
And he was holding the most exquisite bouquet of flowers I’d ever seen. As Amelia opened the door, he hugged her so tight he almost picked her up, and kissed her cheek with such elegant reverence it made me want to punch something.
He glanced at me over her shoulder. “Hi!” His voice was friendly, untroubled, like he picked up married women in front of their husbands every day.
Amelia turned around and looked at me, as if she’d completely forgotten I was still standing there. “Mark, this is Florin.”
Florin gave me a quick smile before looking back at Amelia with pure worship in his eyes. Like she was a goddess he’d been blessed to behold.
“Don’t wait up for me,” Amelia called over her shoulder.
And then—he placed his hands low, too low on my wife’s waist. His hands almost touched her ass. That was the exact way I held her sometimes when we’d go out on date nights. He led her away possessively. Confidently. Like he had every right to touch my wife that way.
A burning sensation exploded in the pit of my stomach. White-hot jealousy mixed with rage mixed with something that felt suspiciously like panic.
I already loathed this guy. His perfect face, his perfect flowers, his perfect fucking hand on my wife’s ass.
The door closed behind them.
I stood there for a moment, paralyzed, then rushed to the living room window.
A sleek red Aston Martin was parked at the curb. The guy—this young, gorgeous, rich guy—opened the passenger door for Amelia. Where did Amelia even meet him?
They looked like something out of a fairy tale. The handsome prince and his beautiful lady, off to some magical destination.
And I hated every second of it.
I watched as the Aston Martin pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into the glittering Paris traffic. I watched it until it was just another pair of taillights disappearing into the night.
I felt something drop in the pit of my stomach. Then I smelled it. A burning, bitter smell of garlic and bread. I turned around to see black smoke coming out of the oven. The fire alarm went off in its frenzied loudness, but it didn’t elicit any urgency from me.
Amelia’s beautiful face as she had smiled at Florin came floating to me. Oh, my beautiful, innocent Amelia.
I opened the balcony doors to let the smoke escape and walked towards the oven to turn it off. I had burned down the dinner I had so painstakingly put together.
Was I doing the same with the life I had built with Amelia?
