Open Marriage

ELENA’s POV

Mark came home with flowers that day.

I almost didn’t recognize the gesture.

He stood at the door, holding a neat bouquet of white lilies and pale roses, like a man trying to remember a role he used to play well. For a second, I saw the boy from Capri, the one who used to pull me into the sea fully dressed just to hear me scream and laugh.

“You bought flowers?” I asked, surprised despite myself.

Our ten-year anniversary was the next day, and it wasn’t like Mark to remember it so early.

Mark gave a small shrug. “Is that a crime?”

“No,” I said quickly. “It’s just… it’s been a while.”

He stepped inside. I reached for the flowers. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“Elena,” Mark said, and something in his tone made my fingers tighten around the stems. “We need to talk.”

My stomach dropped, but I forced a light smile. “That sounds serious. What about? Are you finally asking me out on a proper date? It’s been years since you’ve tried to impress me.”

He didn’t smile back. We stood facing each other in the entryway.

Mark exhaled slowly. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“About what?”

“About us.”

My heart began to pound. “What about us?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that we should open our marriage.”

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. “I’m sorry?”

“Open it,” he repeated. “An arrangement. We stay married. We maintain the image. But we allow… freedom.”

The air felt thin. “What are you talking about, Mark?”

“We got together young,” he continued. “We married at nineteen. We’ve only ever been with each other. We never explored. I never explored.”

“You never complained.”

“I didn’t know what I was missing.”

The words hit harder than I expected. “You’re saying you’re bored?” I asked quietly.

He hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “That’s funny. I spent ten years building your life.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s 2026. This isn’t dramatic. Plenty of couples do it. We’d be honest. No sneaking around.”

My eyes searched his face. “Are you already seeing someone?”

“I’m already cheating on you.”

Mark said it like he was discussing the weather. Not like he was destroying ten years of my life. I stared at him.

“What?”

He loosened his tie, calm. “I said I’m already cheating. So we might as well make it official.”

The bouquet of flowers suddenly felt like a joke.

“You bought me flowers,” I said slowly.

“Yes.”

“And then came home to tell me you’re sleeping with someone else?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to overreact.”

Overreact.

My fingers tightened around the flowers. White lilies. My favorite. Or at least… they used to be.

“We’ve been married for ten years, Mark.”

“Yes.”

“And this is how you bring it up?”

“I’m being honest,” he said flatly. “Most men wouldn’t.”

I laughed. A soft, broken sound. “Honest would have been before you cheated.”

He ignored that.

“So what do you want?” I asked quietly. “An open marriage then.”

Silence filled the room.

“We stay married. Keep the image. But we’re free privately.”

“Free,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“To cheat.”

“I’m already doing that,” he snapped. “This just makes it clean.”

There it was. No guilt. No hesitation. No love.

“Is there someone else, Mark?” I asked again.

He didn’t answer.

“That’s a yes.”

*

*

The next day, I still cooked. After all, it was our anniversary night. And Mark probably was drunk yesterday while talking about an open marriage.

Lamb. Roasted vegetables. His favorite wine. Candles lit along the dining table. Ten years deserved something, even if he did not.

I checked the time. 9:17 PM.

He hadn’t called. I didn’t hear his car pull up, only the heavy thud of the front door.

And then it hit me.

Jasmine perfume. Thick. Sweet. Not mine.

“You’re still up,” Mark said as he walked in, loosening his tie.

“It’s our anniversary,” I replied.

He paused briefly, as if remembering a meeting he had forgotten. “Oh. Right.”

I stared at him. “You forgot.”

“I had dinner at the office.”

“With who?”

He frowned. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” My voice trembled. “I made lamb.”

“I said I ate.”

He poured himself a glass of scotch. Ice clinked loudly in the silent room.

“Elena, please sit,” he said. “We need to formalize what we discussed earlier.”

I sat slowly. He placed a thick leather folder on top of my hand-painted anniversary card.

“I had my lawyers draft an Open Marriage Contract.”

My throat tightened. “You were serious.”

“Yes.”

“You really went to lawyers before finishing a conversation with your wife?”

“I’m a practical man.”

“You’re a coward.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You came home with flowers yesterday and then now you are telling me you want other women. And I’m dramatic?”

He leaned back. “My image requires a wife. A stable one. We look good together. Investors like it. The board likes it. But my needs as a man are separate.”

“Your needs,” I repeated.

“You’ve become comfortable, Elena. Domestic. Predictable.”

I stared at him as if he were a stranger.

“You mean loyal.”

“I mean stagnant.”

The word felt like a slap.

“I gave you ten years,” I whispered.

“And you’ll still have the title,” he replied coolly. “We stay married publicly. Privately, we have freedom. I do what I want. You can do what you want.”

“You don’t expect me to use it,” I deduced.

He didn’t deny it. Mark thought I was undesirable and this was only going to benefit him.

“Who’s going to look at a housewife,” he added casually, “when they could have a twenty-two-year-old?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“You’re asking me to allow you to cheat,” I said.

“I’m telling you I already am,” he snapped. “This just makes it clean.”

He pushed the folder closer. “Sign it.”

Then he walked out of the room.

I stared at the papers. My tears blurred the ink. Clause after clause. Legal language. Conditions. Public appearances. Asset separation.

Then I saw it. A small clause referencing the family trust.

If the husband failed to maintain a monogamous household, the wife would receive immediate access to a $25 million personal protection fund.

My breathing slowed. He had triggered it himself. He was so sure I would crumble that he hadn’t checked the trust conditions.

A strange calm washed over me. I picked up the pen.

Signed.

I did not go to bed. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom and called my best friend.

“Chloe, he did it,” I whispered tearfully.

“Who did what?”

“Mark. He brought some papers. It’s official. He wants an open marriage.”

There was silence. Then, “That arrogant man.”

“He called me stagnant.”

Chloe exhaled sharply. “Some nerve he has, he should be grateful you looked at him years ago.”

“He thinks no one would want me.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” Chloe said. “Because I know plenty of men who would.”

“I don’t even know who I am outside of him.”

“Then it’s time you remember.”

I sat on the cold tile floor. “I don’t know how to start.”

“Simple,” Chloe replied. “If he wants an open marriage, fine. We open it properly.”

“I can’t just walk into a bar.”

“You won’t. I’ll help you.”

•

•

The next morning, Chloe came over with coffee and a determined face.

“We’re making you a profile,” she announced.

“A profile,” I repeated faintly.

“Yes. If he’s going to explore, so are you.” Chloe shrugged, bringing out her phone to show off an app. “There’s this new site that’s been trending, a hook-up app but for rich people instead. Makes sense for privacy.”

We sat on the couch with my phone between us. Chloe scrolled through old photos. “Not this one. You look tired. Oh. This one.”

“That’s from Capri.”

“Exactly. That girl is still here.”

We chose a picture of me laughing at the beach.

“What do I even write?” I asked.

Chloe smirked. “Something simple. It’s only a quick fuck you are looking for after all.”

After an hour, the profile was live. I immediately wanted to delete it.

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

I ignored the app for days. Until Mark came home again with lipstick on his mouth. Bright red. He didn’t wipe it off and he couldn’t even apologize.

It was as if I was a furniture to him which made something inside me shift.

That night, I opened the app. Notifications flooded the screen. Invitations. Lots and lots of them.

I scrolled slowly. “They’re all smiling too much,” I muttered. “Isn’t it supposed to be a one-night stand and not a relationship?”

Chloe leaned over my shoulder. “Keep going.”

Then I stopped.

A black and white photo. A man sitting in a leather chair. No smile. Dark eyes. Strong jaw. Calm, almost intimidating.

“Who’s that?” Chloe asked.

“No name,” I read out, confused.

No flashy bio. Anonymous. I swallowed.

“Maybe he wants privacy too. Message him,” Chloe whispered.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He looks… dangerous.”

Chloe grinned. “Good.”

I stared at the screen. “If I do this,” I said slowly, “I’m not doing it to feel wanted.”

“Then why?”

“So I can stop feeling small.”

I typed one word.

Hello.

My finger hovered. Then I pressed send.

My heart raced immediately.