— COMING IN 2019 —
Most know him for the powerhouse he calls a business. But I call him my husband. At one time people would have said we’re in love, but now, we’re just stuck. To some marriage is a way of life. To us it’s just a word. It means nothing when your lives resemble something of roommates with shared children. Seventeen years and three kids later, we barely occupy the same room, let alone a bed together. He has his life and I have mine. I don’t know where it all went wrong. Maybe the chase of success.
But sometimes power can be a double-edged sword.
In my career I’m confident, I’m driven, and I’ve mastered my business down to an art, but then I come home and I’m lost. I’m torn between who I was, who I am, and who I’m supposed to be. I’m alone in a houseful of people. I’m numb. And I haven’t felt the touch of a man in far too long. There are things I need that my husband won’t give me.
Then a client proposed an offer to fix it all.
But do I take it? He promised me seclusion, privacy, and confidentiality—all things that are not optional for me. Everyone abides by the rules or there are consequences. I sit at a crossroads. Continue living the same repetitious life day in and day out or choose spontaneity. Take a risk. Be miserable. Or find happiness. In the end, I’m just a woman looking for the same thing as everyone else—love, intimacy, desire.
Funny thing about marriage—the pain in one is often the pain in the other. The part that is hard to believe—my husband has just as many secrets as me . . .
A woman known by most as my rival. Only a select few know we share anything aside from our competitive nature. I call her my wife. She plays hardball in her career; wheeling and dealing with clients in a way that pays off. She’s intimidating in her workplace, sits comfortable in her space, but then she comes home and she’s different. We haven’t been us in a long time.
Somewhere we changed.
At one time things between us were great. We loved each other. We were dynamite in bed. Our three kids prove that. But between kid two and three, life got in the way. Problems. Stress. Struggles. Marital strain. Mistakes were made. Hardships were created. But love conquered them all.
Even though I’m not sure it did.
I look at her and I remember what we were. How she likes it. What touching her is like. How beautiful her body is with nothing covering it. She looks at me as if I’m just a controlling stranger she shares bills and children with. I haven’t experienced her in so long I’m not sure how anymore. A man can only hold out for so long.
Then I got wind of a private club. A secret society for the rich, the elite, the people that need to keep their identity hidden. Anything is possible when you have a big enough bank account. Your likes, your dislikes, your requirements—all become reality. Mine—let’s just say they resemble a certain somewhat I’m at odds with.
A scar changed everything.
Betrayal, hatred, anger, and heartache—all things that spiraled quickly. But then I chose to look at it like I would look at any deal—objectively. And everything became clear. When something is dead you douse it in alcohol and light it on fire. You start over. You extinguish the pain. And in the end . . . not even blackmail can stand in between two people in love.