The Prince Call Boy

At my husband's promotion party to CEO, I accidentally saw my sister Thea's leg rubbing suggestively against his suit pants.

She was in a mini skirt with sheer black stockings showing off her slim legs.

Ane me? As a 34-year-old stay-at-home mom, I was stuck in a conservative, oversized coat to avoid any mishaps with my two playful daughters.

The rest of the event is a blur.

I had the driver take my daughters home first. When I was alone with my husband, Garnar, I found Thea's stockings in his pants pocket.

“Are you sleeping with my sister?” I shudder. “I can't believe- Why?”

His gaze trails down my body, and with every inch, his face scrunches further in disgust.

“Look at you,” he says.

I glance down at my shapely figure underneath. I am not the ultra-thin size 0 I was when we had met in college, but I’ve worked hard post-giving birth to keep a healthy, albeit curvy, shape.

“You’re not longer young,” he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Thea, meanwhile, is everything you are not.”

“Eight years younger?” I ask.

He opens his eyes again just to glare once more. “She cares about herself. Her skin is perfection, and that blonde hair…”

“Came from a box.” I know the exact number.

“She’s beautiful,” Garnar says with a satisfied little smile.“So why shouldn't I? I provide for this family. I give you a home. You don't have to work. Can't I have anything for myself?”

“Have you forgotten that you were promoted because of me and my family? I don't understand why you are so cold ......”

“Your family?“ Garnar scoffs. “It's not your family, it's your adoptive family. Thea is your parents' real daughter.”

“I want a divorce,” I say.

He laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Me being with Thea benefits you too.”

“How could that possibly be true?”

“My sleeping with her helps cement our ties to your family. We can’t lose those connections.”

We were never in danger of losing those connections. I am adopted, but that’s never stopped my family from considering me as one of their own.

“An open marriage is the best choice,” Garner says.

I’m too stunned to reply.

“You’re hysterical,” he says, misconstruing my shock. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

I have put up with a lot from him over the years. I’ve tried to make this marriage work. I’ve sacrificed my own dreams, my own ambitions, to stay home and raise the children. To take care of the house. To be the housewife he wanted me to be. But this? This is too much.

I come from a political family and they have nurtured all my abilities. It’s my connections that have helped him advance in his career. It’s my friends who have put in recommendations for him. It’s my words in the right ears that have helped him become CEO.

I don’t want credit. I don’t need acknowledgement. What I want is respect.

“Come out with me tonight,” says Cynthia, my best friend, when I tell her what happened over the phone.

I’ve already tucked in the girls, but after, instead of going to the bedroom with Garner, I’ve returned to his study.

“I have an in to get us into a new place,” Cynthia continues. “It’s really popular right now. It will be fun. Get your mind off of everything. Like when we used to hang out in college.”

“I should check with Garner,” I say on reflex. The words turn to ash in my mouth.

Cynthia snorts belligerently. “After what he’s done? Why?”

I don’t have a good answer, which is how I find myself standing outside one of the top bars in the city just thirty minutes later.

Cynthia is dressed for the club, in tight shorts and a too-loose tank top that shows off the top edge of her flowery bra when she leans over.

I’m still wearing my cocktail dress from the party. It’s nothing too revealing, but it’s form-fitting. And it’s covered in blue sequins. Garner said it was too much when he saw me the first time wearing it, but I like the way it sparkles.

I’m so tired of worrying about what he thinks. Hell, I’m tired of thinking about him at all.

The line outside of the bar is filled with people younger than us. Cynthia and I are 34. The people in this line look barely out of college.

“Are you sure this is our kind of place?” I ask. With the music pulses from within, I have to shout to be heard over the noise.

Cynthia flashes me a mischievous smile. Seeing it, I know I’m in for a good time tonight, but also a lot of trouble. “Guys our age are always looking for young, fresh meat. Why shouldn’t women?”

We walk right past the line. Cynthia waves at the bouncer and we are let in immediately. A few of the younger girls in the line grumble, likely with nothing good to say about us. The younger guys, however, whistle.

I hate to admit it, but it lifts my spirits at once. It makes me feel a bit sexy.

Riding that high, I accept the first drink Cynthia passes my way, and then the second. Three shots down, I’m ready to head out onto the dance floor.

Yet, as I step up onto the glowing elevated floor, my heel catches on the edge and breaks right off. I stumble, suddenly off-balance, and start to fall.

In a flash, a pair of strong arms wrap around me and pull me against a firm chest. I look up into the bright blue eyes of a twenty-something man. He’s handsome, with dark hair falling down over his forehead. I kind of want to reach out and brush it away from his face.

He watches me with curious interest.

“Careful,” he says. “You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

My heart races.