My Fake Husband Wants A Threesome

Bianca’s pov

I used to love watching my husband sleep. In those early days, his face was soft and open. I would trace the line of his shoulder and feel like the luckiest woman in the world. He was my best friend. We told each other everything, but he does not look like that man anymore.

Now, I lie beside a stranger in our matrimony bed. I study the hard line of his mouth, searching for the young man I married. He is gone. Somewhere in the last seven years, the man who loved me disappeared, and this cold, powerful businessman took his place. He did not change overnight. It was a slow freeze, a quiet turning away, until one day I woke up and realized the warmth between us was gone for good.

They say in every couple, one person loves more. I am the one he loves less, while I have always loved him the more. I am the one staring at my husband in the dark, listening to him sleep. I am the one checking his phone before the sun is up. My finger does not work on the screen. The same little picture pops up, over and over. It might be her. I do not know. The messages are hidden. I am on the outside. Tell me her name, you bastard. Say it out loud. Say Rosa. But he never does. He has all the power, even in his dreams.

The first time I thought about killing my husband, I was making his coffee. It was not a sudden burst of anger or a loud shout. It was a calm, clear thought, like noticing we had run out of milk. The pot made a soft sound as the dark coffee dripped, and I found myself thinking about poison, about how his perfect, handsome face would look in a coffin. The idea did not scare me. It made me feel at peace.

This morning, in the same kitchen, the thought came back to me. The thought of ending him. It felt like the only answer. It came back because of what I saw last night. The way he leaned close to his secretary, his hand on her lower back as he guided her through the crowd. He laughed at something she said, tilting his head in a way I knew so well. He used to look at me like that, as if I were the only person in the world. Last night, his eyes never searched for me in the crowd. Not even once.

Then my husband appears with his noiseless steps. He walks into the kitchen, rubbing his temple.

“My head is fucking killing me,” he says.

I do not look away from the coffee maker. “I am happy you had a good time last night.”

He stops. I feel his eyes on me. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, those bright green eyes, the ones I fell for in college, now scanning me for weaknesses.

“Wrong?”

“You seem upset.”

I count backward from ten. ‘Stay calm, Bianca. Just breathe.’ But how can I? He humiliated me in front of all our so-called friends last night, and he doesn’t even remember. “I’m fine.”

He pours his coffee and sits, his expression one of practiced innocence. “You say you’re fine, but you’re staring at me like you want me dead.”

My hands grip the edge of the table. “You embarrassed me last night. How can I expect anyone to respect me when my own husband treats me so poorly?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your karaoke duet with Rosa. Your ‘secretary’. The one you had pinned against the wall by the bathrooms.”

He rolls his eyes, a masterful performance of exasperation. “Not this again. Bianca, it means nothing. Your jealousy is embarrassing.”

“Jealousy?” The word is a spark on gasoline. I want to throw my mug so badly I can feel the impulse twitching in my fingers.

“You have a life other women would kill for,” he continues, his voice dropping to that cold, clinical tone I despise. “A career, a husband who comes home. I pay for your whole family. The trust funds for your nieces and nephews. But it’s never enough. You always come back to this pathetic story about Rosa.”

A shiver runs through me. This is the dance. He states his generosity, and I am supposed to be curtsy. If I say one more word, he’ll call my mother. She’ll tell me I’m ungrateful, remind me of my father’s illness, the medical bills he pays. ‘Stop trying to push him away, Bianca. No one wants a divorced woman. Do you want to be alone?’

“My goodness,” I say, my voice dripping with a poison I didn’t know I possessed. “How would you like me to thank you? Should I build a statue of you in the yard?”

“I don’t have time for this.” He stands, but then a new, thoughtful look crosses his face. It’s the look he gets before a business acquisition. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss. Now is a good time.”

My stomach turns to ice. This is it. The divorce?

“What is it?” I ask, bracing for the blow.

“I want an open marriage and a threesome at our next anniversary.”

The words hang in the air, senseless. “What?”

“It’s when a couple agrees to see other people.”

“I know what it means, Brandon. The answer is no.”

He looks at me with pure disgust. “I wasn’t asking for your permission. Starting now, this is how things are. When you see me with someone else, do not cause a scene.”

My heart hammers in my ears. “It’s only an open marriage if I agree. And I don’t.”

I stand, pacing, the anger a live wire under my skin. Seven years. This is the graveyard.

“I want children, Bianca,” he says, as if reviewing a quarterly report. “How can I have them if I don’t find another woman to be with?”

Tears come, hot and humiliating. “It’s not my fault.”

“It’s not mine, either. Maybe the problem is the two of us together.”

The cruelty of it steals my breath. Nine rounds of IVF. So much hope, so much failure. My hands go to the belt of my robe. I untie it and let the silk puddle at my feet, standing naked before him.

Brandon’s eyes widen in shock.

I walk over and sit on his lap, taking his hand and placing it over my heart. “Do you feel nothing for me anymore?”

“Bianca…”

“Am I disgusting to you now?” I move my other hand, but he stands abruptly, pushing me away as if I’m contaminated.

“Stop this,” he orders, retreating behind the kitchen island. “Get dressed.”

Trembling, I watch him head for the stairs.

“Wait,” I call out, my voice breaking.

He glances back, his face a mask of indifference. “What?”

The fight drains out of me, leaving only a hollow shell. “It’s fine,” I whisper. “Do whatever you want.”

Brandon gives a single, pleased nod. “Good.”

Then he leaves.

***************

I have always been the responsible one. The sensible one. The designated driver for every chaos my family created.

But now, for the first time in my life, the thought of murder is no longer a dark comfort. It is a blueprint.

I am standing at the window when Brandon’s car pulls up. And she’s with him. Rosa. She’s carrying suitcases.

They walk in, and the air in my house changes. It smells of her perfume.

“What is going on?” I demand.

Brandon smiles, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. “Bianca, you remember Rosa.”

“I know exactly who she is.”

“Good. Then this will be easy.” He pulls her closer, his arm snaking around her waist. “Rosa is moving in.”

The world tilts. After a long silence, I find my voice, lacing it with all the contempt I possess. “Is she homeless?”

“No,” Brandon says, his victory complete. “She’s my girlfriend now. And I am getting her pregnant. Sooner, it will be threesome, if Rosa permits me.”