CHAPTER ONE
"What if we opted for an open marriage?"
The words dropped into the morning like a bomb. No lead-up. No warning. Just a detonation that split the quiet like lightning across the dead sea.
Flora's hand froze in mid-air, the spoon still hovering above her mug of spiced tea. The soft clink of metal on ceramic was the only sound in the house—big, beautiful, and too quiet. Their mansion sat high in tge hills, with a view that stretched all the way to the nearby villages. But inside, it felt like a tomb.
She didn't speak. Her breath caught somewhere between lungs and lips. Silence had become her shield. But her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the spoon back in the cup.
Across the room, Richard stood tall and still, arms folded over his chest. He wore a crisp white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and navy blue slacks that clung just right. He was handsome—dangerously so—with a jaw that could cut glass and the smooth, dark skin of a man used to being admired.
He was the kind of man women whispered about at weddings. Born into money. Related to the President's family. Built like a model but with the brain of a strategist. And a temper. Oh, he had a temper. "I'm being honest," he said now, his voice smooth but with a sharpness beneath. "You should appreciate that, Flora."
"I should… what?" she asked, her voice barely there. "Appreciate the honesty," he said again, as if she were a child. "I didn't sneak behind your back. I didn't cheat. I came to you like a man."
"You want to sleep with other women?" she whispered, her voice small, the hurt already creeping in. "I want options," he said. "I want breathing room. We've been married for three years, and—Flora, come on—you can't tell me this is still working."
Flora stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She was in her favorite cotton dress, faded blue with little embroidered flowers at the hem. She looked down at the floor, then back at him, as though to say something, but the words caught in her throat.
"Are you… are you leaving me?" she asked, her voice a mixture of disbelief and a pain she hadn't expected to feel. "No," he snapped. "Don't twist my words." "Then say what you mean, Richard." "I mean," he said, pacing now, his voice thick with frustration, "that we're stuck. You're always in the house. Always praying. Always waiting. Like you've disappeared inside yourself."
"I didn't know I wasn't enough," she said, her voice small. "You were," he muttered, his hands running through his hair. "But people change. I've changed. And if I don't do something about it, I'm going to explode." Her heart twisted. "So, you're tired of me."
He looked at her then. Really looked. His expression softened just a bit, but the frustration remained. "You're not exciting anymore, Flora, You used to light up. You used to laugh. Now it's like I'm living with a ghost."
Her chest tightened. "Because I thought that's what you wanted. A calm woman. A prayerful home." He scoffed. "I wanted a partner. Not a shadow." His words cut through her, deeper than she could have imagined. "I'm sorry I didn't live up to your expectations," she said, the hurt clear in her voice. "I cook, I clean, I try to make this house a home. I give you peace, Richard. What more do you want?"
Richard stopped pacing and looked at her. His jaw tightened. "I didn't marry a maid, Flora. I married a woman. A woman with dreams, with desires. And I'm trying to make this marriage work. But you… you're not here. You're lost in your own little world of prayers and duties." Her breath caught. The words felt like a slap in the face. "You want me to change who I am," she whispered.
"I want you to live," he said, his voice rising. "You've locked yourself away in this role of the perfect wife. But I'm not the man I was when we first met. I need more. You need to be more." Her heart pounded in her chest. "So you want me to change myself to fit into whatever mold you've created for me?" she asked, her voice shaky now. "No, Flora. I'm saying you need to grow. We need to grow. This… marriage is suffocating me." She stepped back, her legs weak. "So, you're telling me you want to sleep with other women? You want an open marriage?"
"I need options," he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "I need space to breathe. This is my truth, Flora. I'm telling you this because I'm not going to lie to you. You deserve the truth." The words hung in the air, sharp and final. She felt a coldness creeping into her bones.
"No," she whispered. "I can't accept this."
Without another word, she turned and hurried to the stairs, her heart in her throat.
She felt as though the ground beneath her had shifted, the floor tilting beneath her feet. Her legs felt like they were made of jelly as she ran up the stairs, her mind a whirlwind of shock and confusion. She burst into their bedroom, slammed the door behind her, and locked it. Her breath was ragged, her chest tight as she leaned against the door, eyes wide and filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She could still hear his voice downstairs, calling her name, but she couldn't face him. Not yet. Not like this.
She sank to her knees beside the bed, her hands pressed together in prayer, her forehead resting against the mattress as if it might hold her together. "God, I don't understand," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, show me what to do. Please guide me. I don't know what to do, but I trust You. I trust You."
The tears finally came, but they weren't tears of anger. They were tears of grief, of confusion. She had taken vows. She had sworn to honor him, to love him, to be his partner. But how could she do that when he wanted something so foreign to her beliefs, to her soul? One thing was clear: Richard had opened the door.
And he had no idea what he'd let in.