My Husband Wants an Open Marriage

~~Julie~~

My husband, Ryan, is standing on the karaoke stage, making a fool of himself. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, his tie long abandoned, and his cheeks are flushed from too much whiskey.

"And I.........will always love you....." he sings, closing his eyes.

His voice is terrible.

Standing beside him, practically glued to his side, is his secretary, Emily. Her left arm is around Ryan's waist, her fingers lightly grazing his back as she sings. She's younger than me, at least by half a decade, all wide eyes and perfect curves, dressed in a tight, low-cut dress that makes it impossible to ignore her presence. She leans into Ryan, whispering something in his ear, and he throws his head back, laughing. He looks at her like she's the funniest person in the world.

I've never seen him this happy.

The last time I saw him this happy was on our wedding day, seven years ago. Back then, his eyes sparkled when he looked at me. Now, the light in them has grown dimmer; they're shining for someone else.

Around me, everyone is laughing. It's the company's quarterly review party, and the employees are loose after a few too many drinks, finding Ryan and Emily's performance hilarious. But I know what they're really laughing at. They're laughing at me. The CEO's wife, sitting here while her husband practically gropes his secretary in front of everyone. The whispers, the side glances, they don't even try to hide it.

"Do you think they're going to kiss?" someone whispers behind me.

"Definitely. Bet they'll be doing more than kissing after this," someone else replies, and they both chuckle.

I turn around to look at the people talking. Young, drunk, and probably high on weed too. They must be interns. Only people with zero knowledge of the company's hierarchy would make such a statement close to their employer's wife.

Or maybe they just don't care.

The girl, with messy blonde hair and red cheeks, locks eyes with me. "Hi!" she says, a little too loud. "Do you work here?"

Do I work here? My eyes narrow. She's definitely an intern.

She's pretty, the kind of pretty that comes with youth and arrogance. The boy next to her drapes his arm lazily over her shoulders.

I don't respond. I just stare at them, cold and unblinking.

Before I can say something that would make them regret their existence, I hear my name called.

"Julie!" the voice says, drawing my attention.

Even before I turn, I know who it is. Samantha, the vice president of marketing. We both work for Paragon Jewels, Ryan's company, the leading manufacturer of luxury jewelry in North America. Her position is just below mine, so she's one of the few who calls out my name like we're friends, even though we're not.

"Samantha," I reply, forcing a polite smile.

"I didn't know you were here, Julie. I was just telling the marketing team we have to get you involved more!"

"Oh?" I say. "Why's that?"

"Well, you're the head of marketing, and everyone wants to meet you! You're so hard to catch these days. And besides, we never get a chance to chat at work," she says, with an overplayed wink.

Her gaze drifts to the stage where Ryan and Emily are swaying together, sharing the mic, laughing like they're on some private date instead of a work event.

"So, Mrs. O'Brien," she says, smirking, "how are you enjoying the show so far?"

She's mocking me. The fucking bitch.

I force a bright smile. "Oh, it's... fantastic," I say, struggling to keep a straight face. "I'm thrilled to see my husband's hard work is being rewarded with such... dedication from his staff."

The crowd is clapping now, giving Ryan and his secretary a standing ovation. I guess they're done with their nonsense.

But then Ryan speaks into the microphone. "Before we get down, we've got one more song for you!"

More applause. More laughter. And I want the ground to open up and swallow me.

Samantha looks at me with pity in her eyes. "Well... umm," she says. "I'll catch up with you later."

She quickly excuses herself.

Behind me, I hear those interns whispering again. "Oh, my God. Did you hear what she said? That's Mrs. O'Brien."

I turn to glare at them one last time, and the boy shifts uncomfortably, pulling the girl to her feet. "Let's go," he mutters under his breath, and they stumble away, sneaking a look at me before disappearing into the crowd.

Good. Let them run.

I turn back to the stage, my heart pounding in my chest. Ryan is singing "Everything I Do"-if you can call that singing. Emily is now pressed against him, her hand running up his arm in a way that makes my stomach twist. She's completely shameless, and he's too drunk to even notice-or worse, he doesn't care.

I can't take it anymore.

Without thinking, I push my chair back and stand. My heels click against the floor as I march toward the stage. I can feel the weight of everyone's eyes on me, the whispers dying down as they realize what's happening. They've been waiting for this-waiting to see if I'll crack.

But I don't care. I'm done playing the perfect wife.

I climb the steps to the stage, each footstep feeling heavier than the last. Ryan doesn't notice me at first, too lost in his drunken performance, but Emily spots me and her smile falters. Good.

"Ryan," I say. "We're leaving now."

Ryan looks at me, surprised. "Why?" he slurs, still holding the microphone. "The party's just getting started."

I grit my teeth, my fists clenched. "Let's go. Now."

"Julie, come on," he says, sounding annoyed now as if I'm the one ruining his night.

I can't help it. Something inside me snaps.

Without another word, I turn and walk toward the back of the stage. The technical operators sitting in the booth look up as I approach, their faces going pale.

"Who's in charge here?" I ask.

They all point to a man standing near the soundboard, holding a half-eaten donut. His eyes widen as he sees me.

"Mrs. O'Brien," he stammers, quickly setting the donut aside. "Is there something-uh-something I can do for you?"

"Shut it down. All of it," I say. "The party's over."

He blinks, not sure if I'm serious, but one look at my face and he scrambles to obey. His hands fly across the controls, and within seconds, the speakers cut out with a harsh screech. The lights dim. The music dies. Silence falls over the room like a heavy curtain, and all that's left is the sound of my heels as I walk back to center stage.

Ryan is standing there, his microphone useless in his hand.

"Julie, what the hell?" Ryan mutters.

I meet his eyes, feeling the weight of everything I've been holding in for too long. "You've had your fun," I say quietly, but with enough steel in my voice that it stops him from saying anything else. "Now it's over."

I don't wait for a reply. I grab his arm and start leading him down the stairs.

Ryan stumbles slightly, caught off guard by my sudden forcefulness. His eyes flick to the crowd, scanning their faces for something, maybe support, or validation, but all he finds are wide eyes and muted whispers. Everyone's too shocked, too entertained by the unfolding drama, to come to his defense.

The whispers start immediately. I hear snatches of conversation as we pass. Let them talk. Let them laugh.

Ryan's too drunk to fight me, too embarrassed to protest. For once, he's the quiet one, and I'm the one in control.

Justin, Ryan's bodyguard/chauffeur, sees us coming and is already moving into action. He steps forward, opening the back door of the car without a word.

Ryan mumbles something under his breath- maybe an apology, maybe an excuse-but I don't stop. I don't even look at him. I tighten my grip, forcing him into the backseat with a firm push, and he collapses into the car.

"Take us home," I say, climbing in behind Ryan. Then I slam the door shut.

It's true what they say about marriage: one partner is always happier than the other.

In my case, I'm the unhappy one.

I'm the one who can't sleep. I'm the one who watches her husband's sleeping face at night, looking for a sign-anything to prove what I've suspected all along, that he's cheating on me. Just say a word, goddammit, a name, something, dear God. That's all I want. Say, Emily, Ryan. Say Emily.

But Ryan never does. He's too controlled for that.

I'm the one checking his phone, seeing notifications from the same person, the same tiny image. But I can't see the name of the sender, can't recognize the face due to the image size-though it looks like Emily. I can't even read the messages because Ryan has privatized his pop-up notifications.

I'm in the kitchen right now, already on my fifth cup of coffee. And it's just 6 AM.

"Morning," Ryan says, walking in, and rubbing his temple. "Feels like someone took a chainsaw to my head. Last night was fun."

"I'm glad you had fun," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, but the bitterness slips through. He notices it, of course. He always does.

"Something wrong?" Ryan asks, eyeing me cautiously.

"Wrong?"

"You seem... I don't know, off."

I'm counting down from ten in my head. Calm down, Julie. Calm the hell down. But how can I? Ryan disgraced me last night, and he doesn't even remember.

"I'm fine," I say.

Ryan fetches himself a cup of coffee and joins me at the table. He's watching me with that innocent look of his.

Sometimes I forget how handsome he is. With his lovely, sharp jawline and his bright green eyes. The eyes were the first thing I fell in love with. We were freshmen in college, and Ryan mistook me for some girl he brought to the frat party, a girl he swore was his girlfriend. And well, I played along. I enjoyed playing the part, letting him call me Vivian. And in the morning, when he was sober again and didn't recognize me, I told him Vivian no longer wanted him and I did.

Funny how things turn out.

"You say you're fine," Ryan says, breaking the silence, "but you keep looking at me like you want to murder me."

I grip the edge of the table, my nails digging into the wood. "You humiliated me last night, Ryan. How is anyone supposed to respect me when my own husband doesn't?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your stupid karaoke performance yesterday with that bitch, Emily."

Ryan slaps his forehead dramatically. "Oh, not this again. I've told you a hundred times, Julie, there's nothing to worry about. You always bring her up, like you're obsessed or something."

"Obsessed?"

I want to throw my coffee cup at something, and it definitely isn't the wall.

"You have a life most women would kill for," he continues. "A great job, a husband who comes home every night. Do you know how many women throw themselves at me? And yet, I come home to you. I pay your family's bills. I've set up trust funds for your nieces and nephews. But it's never enough, is it? You're always whining about the same thing—Emily this, Emily that. It's exhausting."

I'm shaking now, my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe. But if I say anything more, he'll call my mother again, and she'll tell me I'm being ungrateful. "Stop trying to push Ryan into divorcing you, Julie," she'll say. "No one wants hand-me-downs. Do you want to be alone forever? Go on your knees and tell Ryan you're sorry for being a bitch."

"How would you like me to show my gratitude, my lord?" I say, glaring at Ryan. "Should I commission a carven image of you and worship it?"

"I'm not in the mood for your sarcasm, Julie. My head is already pounding enough." Then something crosses his eyes, a strange look. "Actually, there's something I've been meaning to discuss with you. I feel like now's the right time."

Oh, God. My stomach tightens. He's going to ask for a divorce. I can feel it. Mom's going to kill me. She already planned a vacation in Rio in December.

"What is it?" I ask, bracing myself.

"I want an open marriage."

For a moment, the words don't register. "What?" I say.

"That's when a couple decides to give each other room to see other people, and-"

"I know what an open marriage means, Ryan. Jesus Christ. The answer is no."

He looks at me with disdain. "I wasn't asking. From now on, we're in an open marriage. When you see me with someone else, don't bother asking questions."

My heart slams in my chest. "It's only an open marriage if I agree. And I don't."

I'm on my feet now, pacing the kitchen, trying to contain the rage and hurt boiling inside me. Seven years of marriage, and I'm already gearing close to a heart attack.

"I want kids, Julie," Ryan says. "How am I supposed to have any if I don't date someone else?"

I can't help it; I begin to cry. "But it's not my fault."

"It's not my fault either. Maybe it's just us together."

I can't believe he said that. We've tried for seven years and spent a lot of money. And it's always the same reply: you're both healthy. The embryos are just acting weird. Nine IVFs.

I untie my robe and let it fall to the floor, stripping down until I'm standing naked in front of him. Ryan's eyes widen in surprise.

I move closer and straddle him. I then grab his hand and place it on my chest. "Does this not move you anymore?"

"Julie-"

"Am I ugly to you now?" I reach into his pants, but he quickly stands, pushing me away.

"Stop it," he says firmly, putting space between us. "Put your clothes back on."

Trembling, I watch as he walks away, heading for the stairs.

"Wait," I call out, my voice shaky.

Ryan turns, impatient. "What?"

"It's cool," I say, my voice hollow. "Let's have an open marriage."

Ryan nods. "Good."

And just like that, he walks away, leaving me in a million pieces.

~~~

I like to say I'm a calm person. Sometimes I swear I'm the most level-headed person I know. All my family are maniacs. My sisters, my brothers. My parents. I've always been the one bailing people out of prison. I've been the designated driver during college wild night parties. I've been the cover-up story for my friends in high school. Yeah, everyone claimed they were spending the night at Julie's house. Because their parents knew I was a decent person.

But for the first time in my life, I think I want to kill someone.

I'm watching our driveway from the window, and Ryan is stepping out of his car with none other than Emily. Fucking Emily. And she's carrying suitcases.

"What's going on?" I ask as soon as Ryan and Emily step into the house.

Ryan smiles. "Julie, meet Emily."

"I know who she is, Ryan."

"Good. Then I won't need to explain. Emily's moving in."

I'm honestly too stunned to speak. What does he mean by that? After what feels like ages, I ask, "Is she homeless?"

"No," Ryan says. "She's my girlfriend now."