Across from me, an older woman with silver hair was reviewing color options. The manicurist had informed me breathlessly that she was the most celebrated poet in France.
And here I was, sitting among them. Amelia Davis from suburban New Jersey, getting my nails done at Paris’s most exclusive salon.
Lucien had arranged everything. A day of shopping and pampering, followed by lunch together. A chauffeur waited outside to drive me anywhere I wanted to go. A personal assistant followed me around to manage my shopping bags.
This was my life now.
I watched the french nude polish being applied with careful precision and tried to take stock of where I was.
The sex with Lucien and Florin was absolutely out of this world. The pampering, the royal treatment, the way they both made me feel like the center of the universe, it was intoxicating.
When this whole thing started, it had been a surprise. A revelation, even. That I could be desirable. That powerful, accomplished, devastatingly handsome men wanted me.
Not that I’d ever questioned my desirability during my marriage. It had never mattered. My whole world had been Mark. And the kids.
I’d never needed validation from other men because Mark’s love had been enough.
Or so I’d thought.
But apparently, I wasn’t enough for Mark.
It wasn’t enough that we had incredible sex. It wasn’t enough that we understood each other intellectually, could talk for hours about anything and everything. It wasn’t enough that we were raising two beautiful children in a happy, loving home.
It wasn’t enough that we had a blissful life together. That we loved each other deeply.
Our love wasn’t enough for him.
He’d lied. Right to my face. Looked me in the eyes and told me the open marriage wasn’t about sleeping with someone specific, when all along it had been about Simone.
And for that, I couldn’t forgive him.
I couldn’t trust him the way I had for fifteen years. Something fundamental had shifted in our marriage. I knew my worth now. And I knew his unworthiness.
The manicurist finished my left hand and moved to the right.
But even as I sat here in luxury, surrounded by the trappings of my new life, something nagged at me.
This was a lot to manage. A horde of men who wanted my time, my attention, my body. Coordinating schedules. Keeping track of who I was seeing when.
And what would happen when I went back to Noah and Brook?
Would I want to divide my time between men who wanted me and children who needed me? Would I be scrolling through my phone scheduling dates while helping with homework?
My head hurt just thinking about it.
This was fun. It IS fun.
But the fun was like going to a nightclub. It was thrilling for a few hours, sometimes even an entire night. The music, the lights, the energy—it could be incredible.
But could someone party in a nightclub their entire life?
Probably not.
Eventually, you wanted to go home.
“All done, madame.” The manicurist held up my hands, admiring her work. “Magnifique, non?”
“Yes. Beautiful. Thank you.”
