002: "Sorry can't fix everything you know."

~~PEYTON~~~

When Odin suggested an open marriage months ago, I kicked against it like every sane wife would. I tried to reason with him, and I asked him why.

Why after our one-year marriage?

But he just shrugged, fiddled with his fingers, and gazed down as if he were trying to think of a believable reason.

Finally, he said, "I'm his daddy's choice, and Daddy's choices aren't always the best."

Oh yeah, those words had double meanings that cut deeper than any insult. He is trapped in this marriage and stuck with me for the next year. Because only when we complete our second anniversary will he get his inheritance.

His father's will, penned before the brain tumor stole him away, dictates that Odin must remain married to me for a full two years to inherit his property.

Two years.

We've only just crossed the one-year mark.

He sees me not as his wife, his partner, but as the lock on his inheritance, the obstacle to his financial freedom.

But the most painful part was that at first, things were good. There was a real spark between us. He agreed to be a good husband. We were intimate. Then, suddenly, he changed completely, like someone flipped a switch in his head.

He became distant, cold. Like a stranger living in my house.

He stopped talking to me. He slept on the other side of the bed. He acted like I wasn't even there.

And I didn't understand. What did I do? Where did it all go wrong?

Now I know. I was never really someone to him. I was just the wife he needed to get what he wanted. His father's choice. Not his.

That stings. It burns. It makes all those good memories feel like a lie, like he was just pretending until he was truly trapped.

And now he wants an open marriage? So he can go be with someone he chooses? Oh, scratch that—he has no true love interest; he just flirts around and gets to dip his dick on any woman he finds.

Now I'm fully in.

If he can cheat, why can't I cheat?

I slip my mask on and step into the bar. It's Halloween, but with a twist. It's a masquerade night. Everyone is masked, a sea of hidden faces swirling around me. They'd gone all out—a kaleidoscope of funny, try-too-hard-to-look-scary costumes. Fake blood, monstrous parodies, and towering wigs threatened to topple with every dance step. I'd chosen something simple, just the black mask.

It felt like the perfect disguise, letting me blend into the shadows while still participating in the night's strange ritual.

The music hit me like a physical force; the thumping bass slammed in my chest.

My toes curled inside my shoes.

Cold feet? No. Not tonight.

I'm one who they refer to as a stainless sheep back in the days of college. Never partied...never stayed out past curfew. Never tasted alcohol stronger than communion wine. Never danced with a stranger. Never even considered flirting.

...Tonight, that sheep was done being stainless. I'm not looking for anything serious, just a taste of the freedom Odin had taken.

I push through the entrance, my eyes scanning every masked face.

In this anonymity, finding someone I wouldn't later regret feels like a fool's errand.

"This is stupid," I mutter, slapping my forehead. This part of me, the good girl, the one who always played it safe, was screaming at me to turn around and go home.

Yet I push my way to the bar, needing a drink.

The bartender, a young dude with tired eyes, leans towards me over the clamor.

"Something specific you're after?" he asks, his voice surprisingly calm amidst the chaos.

I meet his gaze. "Give me something strong. Something that'll burn going down."

The words feel foreign on my tongue, but I welcome them.

"Coming right up." He sings as he expertly mixes a dark, ominous-looking concoction, the liquid swirling like a miniature storm in the glass.

He slides it towards me. "Careful with this one. It bites."

I take a long sip, the fire searing a path down my throat. It is exactly what I need.

I slide the glass back. "More please."

The bartender raises an eyebrow but doesn't speak. He slides another to me.

I sip it. But I stop. I'll take it slow; I don't plan on getting drunk tonight.

Just then, a staggering fella, a bit tipsy, stumbles towards the bar, almost bumping into my drink. I dodge just in time, swirling my drink to the other side. My hand hits a hard chest.

The glass slips from my hand, the entire liquid emptying onto the stranger, and hell—it pours directly on his groin.

The glass shatters on the floor.

"Oh shit!" I jolt in panic and glance up, and damn, even though he has a mask on, he sure looks pissed.

His eyes are dark. He doesn't move; he doesn't flinch. His eyes are fix on me intently, unnervingly.

I know running off without an apology is wrong, but I'm gonna run.

This guy is giving me bad boy vibes.

Before I can speak or even take a step, he grabs my chin, pulling me towards him.

I gasp, taken aback. And I blabber, cutting him off.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident," I say too fast.

His eyes narrow. He looks at me—really looks at me—like he's trying to figure me out. The words he had to say dies in his throat.

But he's still holding my chin like I'm some kind of prey he could devour.

"Will you please let go now?" I wince, ripping his hands off me.

I raise my hands in surrender. "I'm really sorry." My eyes trail to his torso, and hell, he was soaking wet. That bartender did give me a full glass, and I had only taken a sip.

"You, um... can go wash up in the restroom. I'm truly sorry," I say, scanning the whole club for anywhere to escape his suffocating gaze, his presence.

But no, he didn't let me take a step again. He yanks my arm roughly but not painfully. His voice comes in a whisper.

"Sorry can't fix everything, you know."

I freeze. That voice.

I turn to him. But there's no familiarity. Just coldness and trouble in its wake.

"I know," I manage to say. "But you're aware there's no way I can fix..." I gesture vaguely to his groin. "...this problem, right?"

He smirks. "You think this..." he gestures down there, "...is the only problem?" He then bends down and picks up a phone with several cracks on the screen.

My hands fly to my mouth. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry—"

"An apology won't fix this or my phone." He growls; his voice is kind of soft, but there's an edge to it, one I'm not comfortable with.

Without a word, I pull out my purse, dip my hands inside, and slip out my phone. I glance up.

"Account details."

He laughs—the kind of laugh that makes my skin crawl. No, it's not a funny laugh; it's clear I'm in trouble.