Mark
The morning sun streamed through the bedroom windows as I carefully balanced the breakfast tray in my hands.
Quinoa bowl with arugula and pesto. Amelia’s favorite. Black coffee, exactly how she liked it. A strawberry danish from the bakery down the street. Fresh-squeezed orange juice.
I used to make breakfast in bed for Amelia all the time back home on Sunday mornings and lazy holidays.
But here in Paris, this was the first time.
I’d been neck-deep in work, trying to understand what Lucien wanted from the lipstick campaign. And with Amelia going on dates with Florin almost every day, things hadn’t been the same between us.
But that was going to change. Starting now.
I needed to put a full stop to this open marriage thing. I was ready to quit it, ready to go back to our blissful life together.
I was hoping, praying, that she felt the same way.
I pushed open the bedroom door quietly. Amelia was still asleep, her strawberry blonde hair spread across the pillow. The morning light made her skin glow, and through her thin nightgown I could see the curves of her body.
She looked so innocent. So beautiful.
I fought the urge to set down the tray, climb into bed with her, and make deep, passionate love to her until she forgot Florin existed.
Instead, I sat gently on the edge of the bed. “Amelia? Sweetheart?”
She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, just a moment, she looked at me the way she used to.
Then she seemed to remember where we were, what we’d become, and something shifted in her expression.
“I made you breakfast,” I said, positioning the tray table across her lap.
Her eyes widened with genuine surprise. “You made breakfast?”
“Your favorite. Quinoa bowl with arugula and pesto.”
She sat up, looking at the spread. A smile crossed her face.
“You even put in sun-dried tomatoes!” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Thank you so much, Mark.”
That simple kiss felt like hope.
I sat across from her on the bed, just watching her eat, trying to soak in every detail of this moment. She made a little satisfied sigh after the first bite, and closed her eyes.
This was my Amelia. My wife. The woman I loved more than anything.
“Amelia,” I said softly. “I love you.”
She kept eating, still smiling, but she didn’t say anything back.
“Amelia, I’ve been thinking that we should end this open marriage thing.”
She stopped eating. Put down her bowl, and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Why? What happened?” Her voice was calm, almost clinical. “Aren’t you getting any dates?”
She looked genuinely concerned—but completely unemotional. Like we were discussing whether I was having trouble at work.
“No, I’m getting plenty of dates,” I lied. “But... but...”
