CHAPTER 1
1290 Words
mia
There’s only ever been one time in my life when my husband truly shocked me—and that was the night he proposed.
I remember it as though it happened yesterday. Our favorite restaurant had been cleared out completely, the floor covered in rose petals. At a single candlelit table stood Damon Wright, waiting for me.
Then he dropped to one knee.
He looked devastatingly handsome in his light grey suit, his black hair combed back exactly how I liked it. His arms strained against the seams of his jacket, and his smile—God, that smile—lit up the entire room.
We were so in love. So ready to take the next step together.
Even when his family didn’t approve, Damon didn’t care. He only wanted me.
He was my first everything.
We’d met in college because his roommate was dating mine, and at a Halloween party they introduced us. I got too drunk, and he walked me home, making sure I was safe. It wasn’t that night I fell for him, but the days afterward. He took me dancing—even though he couldn’t dance to save his life—and I don’t think I had ever laughed that much before.
He cared. He protected. He loved.
And I thought he always would.
So when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.
It was the happiest day of my life.
Which is why now—for the second time ever—I’m truly shocked.
Because Damon just asked me for an open marriage.
I can’t even breathe. I stare at the man I thought was happy with only me. The man I thought still loved me the same way he used to. But it’s clear now—I was wrong.
The last few months have been tense. He hasn’t been sleeping in our bed. He’s obsessed with work. Half the time he doesn’t come home at all. That’s why I made dinner tonight—to talk.
Well, he definitely wanted to talk.
Just not about anything I expected.
My heart pounds in my ears. My stomach twists.
“You want an open marriage?” I finally manage.
He doesn’t even look at me. He’s too busy texting whoever holds his attention these days.
“I think it would be good for us,” he says flatly.
He actually believes this will fix our problems. I’ve read about situations like this. They never end well.
“You mean good for you,” I say.
That gets his attention. He lifts his eyes, ignoring the meal I spent four hours cooking. His perfectly cut steak sits untouched.
“Don’t act like you don’t look at other men on the street, Mia. I’ve seen you.”
Has he completely lost his mind? I don’t look at other men—not like that.
“So you’d be fine with me being with another man?” I ask.
He leans back, folding his arms across his chest, completely unfazed.
“You can do whatever you like, Mia. I won’t ask questions. And you don’t ask me any.”
His mind is already made up. He’s already decided the rules he wants to live by. Normally I’d let something like this slide—but this is our marriage.
If he wanted other women, he shouldn’t have married me.
I grip my knife and slice through the steak, the juices bleeding across the plate.
“I’m not having an open marriage, Damon. I married you because you were the only man I wanted for the rest of my life.”
“You have to admit things have changed,” he replies. “We don’t act married anymore. We’re like… housemates.”
“And whose fault is that?” I snap. “Because it sure as hell isn’t mine. I’ve tried, Damon. God knows I have. Tonight? I tried to get your attention with this.” I gesture at the meal. “I used to wait up for you every night until it became normal that you wouldn’t come home at all. You stopped trying first, not me.”
His eyebrows pull together—not in guilt, but irritation.
“Stop being dramatic. It’s not my fault I’m busy at work. If it wasn’t for me, this house wouldn’t be paid for. Your mother’s hospital bills wouldn’t be covered. Maybe you should be more grateful.”
The words slice deeper than any knife ever could.
Where did the sweet, loving man I used to know go? Because whoever sits across from me now feels like a stranger.
“Don’t do that,” I whisper.
“Do what?” he spits.
“You told me to quit my job when Mom got worse so I could take care of her. You insisted. So don’t sit there and act like I forced you to do anything. I didn’t ask you to pay for everything. You made that choice.”
He scoffs and returns to his phone.
“Take this as my Christmas present. If you agree to this, I’ll get you anything you want.”
Christmas.
Normally my favorite time of year.
But tonight, warmth doesn’t exist—not anywhere inside me.
Last Christmas, Damon didn’t come home at all. I spent it with my mother, Lily. It wasn’t like the old days, when we would go out and do holiday activities, when she’d chase me around the tree with tinsel. Now she can barely leave her bed without an oxygen tank.
We spent most of the day lying in her hospital bed, watching movies. Later, she watched while I decorated the tree alone.
It’s always been just her and me.
My father was never in the picture. According to Mom, he was a Navy man she met at a bar. A one-night stand. He disappeared the next morning, and she found out she was pregnant weeks later. No number. No address. No father.
And honestly? That’s fine.
Mom was enough.
She worked two jobs to raise me, never once complaining, always making sure I had food, clothes, and a home.
I owe her everything.
So when she was rushed to the hospital with fluid in her lungs and transferred to a facility afterward, I visited every week. I still do. I pray she’ll get well enough to come home.
But she won’t—not without a transplant.
And the transplant list is long.
She could wait years.
I’m terrified she doesn’t have years.
I would give her one of my lungs in a heartbeat, but she won’t let me—not even when she needed a blood transfusion.
“Mia, are you even listening?” Damon’s voice snaps me back.
I drag my fork through the peas on my plate.
“Yes. I’m listening.”
“Good. So from now on, you do what you want, and I do what I want. No questions. No judgments. That’s how this will work.”
No matter what I say, he’s going to do whatever he wants. For all I know, he already has.
I may be hurting myself by agreeing—but what choice do I have?
I love him.
I want him to be happy.
And this… this seems to be what he wants.
“Fine,” I whisper. “But I don’t want to see any women. Not in our bed. Not in our house.”
He finally puts his phone down. His green eyes meet mine—really meet mine—for the first time in months. Then he stands, walks over, and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“You have my word, baby.”
But as he walks away, I’m left wondering:
Does his word mean anything to me anymore?
- Writer
