“How long have you been in an open marriage?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“More or less from the beginning.” She sipped her wine. “My husband and I were never really satisfied with each other sexually. So instead of cheating, we discussed it openly and decided on an open arrangement. It works well for us.”
“I’m in an open marriage too.” I blurted out.
“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched. “Were you also not satisfied with your wife?”
And that did it.
Something broke inside me. The whiskey, the loneliness, the crushing weight of what I’d done—it all came pouring out.
“No,” I said, my voice cracking. “No, that’s the thing. Amelia—my wife—she kept me so happy. She was perfect. Our life was perfect.”
Céline’s expression shifted from interested to concerned.
“She’s the most amazing woman,” I continued, my words slurring together. “She’s beautiful and kind and talented and she never complained, not once, about anything I did or didn’t do. And I—”
I pulled out my wallet with shaking hands and showed her the photo I kept there. Amelia with Noah and Brook, all of them laughing.
“Your wife is gorgeous,” Céline said carefully.
“Isn’t she?” My eyes were burning. “She’s gorgeous and perfect and I’m losing her. I’ve lost her. To this—this French artist who drives a fucking Aston Martin and buys her diamonds and takes her on yachts and fucksher—”
I was crying now. Actually crying in a Paris bar in front of a stranger.
“I thought I wanted this. I thought I wanted to sleep with other women. But all I want is her. My sweet, innocent Amelia. And now she’s not mine anymore because of this stupid idea, this stupid open marriage that I convinced her to do because I wanted to fuck my boss’s secretary who turned out to be using me anyway—”
“Okay, you need to calm down,” Céline said, looking around nervously.
But I couldn’t stop. I put my head down on the bar and sobbed like a child.
“Open marriage is not for everyone,” Céline said coldly, standing up. “Especially not for losers like you who were just looking for an easy way to cheat but get all emotional and jealous when their wife does the same. You’re pathetic.”
She threw some euros on the bar for her drinks and left.
I kept my head down, tears soaking into my sleeve.
She was right.
I was pathetic.
As long as I was having fun—or thought I was going to have fun—the idea was perfect. The moment Amelia started actually enjoying herself, the whole thing came crashing down.
All because of my manipulative, chauvinistic idea. I’d convinced myself I was being modern and mature, but really I just wanted permission to cheat while expecting Amelia to stay home and wait for me.
I was a pig.
I lifted my head, wiped my face with a cocktail napkin, and stared at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
I had to set things right with Amelia.
I had to win her back.
I didn’t want an open marriage. I wanted my wife back.
But was it still possible? Or had things already gone too far?
CHAPTER 14
