I examined my nails, perfectly polished, sophisticated, expensive-looking. The hands of a woman who belonged in this world.
But did I?
Or was I just playing dress-up? Trying on someone else’s life for a while?
I thought about Mark’s face this morning. The way he’d looked at me with such desperate love. The way our bodies had fit together, familiar and perfect after fifteen years.
But then I remembered the lie. The manipulation. The way he’d convinced me to agree to something I never wanted just so he could fuck his coworker.
Between a life where I’d have to juggle different men and my children, and a life where Mark might lie to me again—what was more preferable?
Maybe Mark and I were better off living separate lives. Maybe that was best for both of us.
CHAPTER 20
Mark
Every morning, I woke up before dawn.
I made Amelia’s breakfast—quinoa bowls, avocado toast, whatever I thought she might want that day. I arranged it on a tray with fresh flowers from the market and carried it to our bedroom.
Some days she smiled and thanked me. Most days she ate in silence while scrolling through her phone, probably reading messages from Lucien or Florin.
I left love notes around the apartment. On the bathroom mirror. Tucked into her purse. Slipped between the pages of books she was reading.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
Please forgive me.
The flowers I bought wilted and rotted in their vases. Sometimes at night, I found my notes crumpled in the trash.
But I kept trying. Every single day.
Amelia’s demeanor toward me remained distant. I was screwed.
When I left for work each morning, I left knowing what would happen after I was gone. She’d get ready, dress in something beautiful, and leave to be pampered and seduced by Florin or Lucien.
Or both.
The thought used to make me want to put my fist through a wall. Now it just made me sad. And desperate.
At work, I couldn’t escape her.
Amelia’s face was everywhere. The Femme Fatale campaign had become a massive hit—bigger than anyone had anticipated. Her images were on billboards across Paris, in magazines, on digital displays in the Metro.
Amelia in that white shirt with the top buttons undone, just a hint of black lace visible, looking innocently at the camera with those large, beautiful eyes.
Amelia in the pink bunny costume, champagne flute raised to those perfect lips, her curves emphasized in all the right places.
Every man in the office wanted her.
At work parties, at networking events, even in the elevator, men approached me. They’d seen the campaign. They knew we were in an open marriage—office gossip traveled fast, especially when your wife was dating the CEO.
“Hey, Mark, could you give me Amelia’s number?”
“I’d love to take her out sometime.”
