“Think she’d be interested in meeting for drinks?”
I turned them all away. Politely at first, then less politely as the requests kept coming.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d wanted an open marriage so I could sleep with other women. Now women threw themselves at me—not because they wanted me, but because they wanted access to Amelia.
One woman at a company cocktail hour had seemed genuinely interested in me. We’d talked for twenty minutes about the campaign, about marketing strategy, about Paris. I’d started to think maybe—
“So, your wife,” she’d interrupted. “Is she seeing women too? Because I’d love her number.”
Zero. The number of women who actually wanted to date me was zero.
And the strange thing was, I didn’t care.
All the jealousy, all the rage, all the possessiveness I’d felt when this started, had been replaced by something else. Regret. Self-loathing. And a desperate, all-consuming need to fix what I’d broken.
I’d begged. I literally got on my knees in our apartment and begged Amelia to take me back.
Last night, I made her favorite, spinach and ricotta lasagna, from scratch. She’d taken a bite and made an approving sound.
“I love you, Amelia,” I’d said, watching her eat. “I really do. I was so stupid.”
“Mm-hmm,” she’d replied, taking another bite.
“Please, Amelia. I can keep begging for forgiveness for the rest of my life, but please, please take me back.”
She set down her fork and looked at me with those beautiful eyes—eyes that used to light up when they saw me, eyes that now looked at me with something like pity.
“I cannot trust you, Mark.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “It’s just a matter of you finding another girl to replace Simone and this whole thing, or something similar, will repeat all over again.”
“No, Amelia. No.” I moved closer, desperate to make her understand. “I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve learned your worth. I cannot think of losing you ever again.”
She’d picked up her plate and walked toward the kitchen. “I don’t know, Mark. I don’t know.”
That was all she said.
But I knew. Sitting there at the table, watching her walk away, I knew what I had to do.
I went into my room and opened my laptop. I pulled up my lawyer’s email address and started typing.
CHAPTER 21
Amelia
Lucien’s voice on the phone had been different this morning.
“Ma chérie, could you meet Florin and me at Café Laurent this afternoon? There’s something we need to discuss.”
Not his usual playful tone. Not the seductive warmth I’d grown accustomed to. It was something serious, almost solemn.
“Of course,” I’d said. “What time?”
“Three o’clock. And Amelia? This is important.”
He’d offered to send his car, but I’d declined. I had groceries to pick up, and the cafe wasn’t too far from our apartment.
Now, walking through the Paris streets, I let myself soak in the city one more time. The afternoon sun painted everything golden. Couples strolled hand in hand along the Seine. Street musicians played on corners. The smell of fresh bread wafted from boulangeries.
I loved this walk. I loved Paris.
