The Lawyer's Vengeance After Open Marriage

Evelyn

I settled Isabella beneath the covers, brushing her dark hair against the pillow. She yawned, gripping her stuffed rabbit.

"Is Daddy home yet?"

"Soon, sweetheart." I kissed her forehead. "Sleep now."

Her eyes fluttered closed. I waited until her breathing deepened before slipping out, closing the door with a soft click.

The house stretched around me, all marble and silence. Liam’s flight had landed three hours ago. I checked my phone again. Nothing.

Australia. Or was it Singapore? The business trips blurred together these days.

I dialed his number. It rang twice before cutting to voicemail. My stomach tightened. Then my phone buzzed.

Liam: On the way. Traffic.

That was it. No "miss you" or "sorry for the delay." Just two words and an excuse.

I stared at the message, then shoved the phone into my robe pocket.

Evelyn Reed. That used to mean something. Top of my class at Columbia Law. People said I had a gift, the way I could dissect a case, find the weak point, strike with precision. I had cases lined up, a corner office with a view of Central Park, and invitations to conferences in London and Tokyo.

Then I met Liam Vance at a fundraiser. Heir to a pharmaceutical empire, handsome in that effortless way wealth provides. He pursued me with flowers and weekend trips to his family’s estate in the Hamptons. When he proposed, I said yes without hesitation.

Love conquered all, I believed. What a fucking joke.

I gave up the partnership. Gave up the cases. Became Mrs. Vance instead, hostess at charity dinners, mother to Isabella, ornament on his arm at galas. My law degree gathered dust while I organized fundraisers and remembered which fork the Astors preferred.

The gilded cage, they called it. Except that cages had bars you could see.

I headed to our bedroom and stripped off my day clothes in the bathroom. The shower ran so hot it pinked my skin. I scrubbed away the day, dried off, and applied lotion. In the mirror, I looked the same as five years ago. Maybe a few lines around my eyes. My breasts still sat high, my waist narrow, my legs long and toned from morning yoga classes I took to fill the empty hours.

I opened the lingerie drawer. Black lace and silk, tags still on some pieces. I chose a set Liam had bought me last Christmas, which I had never worn. The bra pushed my breasts up the panties barely covered anything. Over it all, a silk robe in champagne, tied loose at the waist.

Keys rattled in the front door. My pulse jumped. I checked my reflection one last time, adjusted the robe so it gaped just enough, then walked out to greet him.

Liam stood in the foyer, loosening his tie with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. His suit was rumpled from travel, dark hair slightly mussed. Still handsome. Still the man I’d married.

"Hey." I descended the stairs, letting the robe slip off one shoulder. "Long flight?"

"Mm." He didn't look up. "Where's Isabella?"

"Asleep."

He nodded, pocketing his phone finally. His eyes skimmed over me, barely registering the lingerie, the effort. "I need to make some calls. Don't wait up."

Something cracked in my chest. I closed the distance between us, pressed against him, inhaled his cologne mixed with airplane air and something floral I didn't recognize.

"The calls can wait." I slid my hands up his chest. "I missed you."

"Evelyn." His voice carried a warning.

I kissed him anyway, hard and desperate. For a moment, he didn't respond. Then his hands gripped my waist, his mouth opened against mine, and relief flooded through me.

See? We were still us. Still that couple who couldn't keep their hands off each other.

Five years ago flashed through my mind. Our wedding night at the Plaza, how he'd lifted me against the door the second we entered the suite. My dress bunched around my waist, his fingers inside me before we even made it to the bed. I'd begged him to fuck me harder as he bent me over the desk, leaving scratches down his back that took days to fade. He'd made me come four times before letting himself finish, whispering promises against my neck about forever, about building something beautiful together.

Where did that man go?

Liam broke the kiss. "Fine."

Not exactly a romantic declaration.

He walked past me toward the bedroom. I followed, pulse racing despite the coldness in his tone. Maybe once we started, once he remembered what we had...

In our bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, already unbuttoning his shirt. I knelt before him, untied my robe, and let it pool on the floor. His eyes tracked over my body with about as much interest as if I were wallpaper.

"Liam."

"What?" He looked at me, waiting.

I reached for his belt. He lifted his hips slightly, let me work the leather through the buckle, and unzip his pants. His cock sat heavy in his boxers. I pulled it free, wrapped my fingers around the base.

Still perfect. Thick, long enough to make my jaw ache, the tip already leaking slightly.

I licked up the underside, swirled my tongue around the head. Tasted salty and something bitter. Not unpleasant, just... different. I took him deeper, hollowed my cheeks, used my hand on what wouldn't fit.

He grew hard in my mouth. That was something, at least. Physical proof he still wanted me on some level.

His hand came to rest on my head, not guiding, just... there. I bobbed faster, messier, let spit drip down his shaft. The wet sounds filled the quiet room.

"Enough." He pulled me up by my arm, turned me around, and pushed me forward over the bed.

I braced myself on my elbows, ass in the air. He shoved my panties to the side. No fingers to test if I was ready, no teasing. Just the blunt pressure of his cock pushing inside.

I was wet enough. Barely. He sank in with one thrust that punched the air from my lungs.

"Fuck." The word escaped before I could stop it.

He gripped my hips, started fucking me in hard, fast strokes. The bed creaked. My breasts bounced with each impact. I reached back, tried to touch him, but he caught my wrist and pinned it to my lower back.

Fine. Rough was fine. I could work with rough.

I clenched around him, moaned, and arched my back to take him deeper. My pussy made obscene sounds, wet and desperate. I was close already, just needed him to touch my clit, just needed something more than this mechanical pounding.

"Liam." I gasped his name. "Touch me, please."

He didn't. Just kept thrusting, using my body like a fuck toy he'd pull out when convenient. No kisses, no dirty talk, no connection. Just his cock splitting me open while he stared at something over my shoulder.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. Didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how close I was, how wet he made me despite everything.

His rhythm stuttered. He grunted, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise, and I felt him pulse inside me. Warmth flooded my pussy as he finished.

Then he was gone. Withdrew so fast I gasped at the emptiness. I heard his footsteps retreating to the bathroom, the shower turning on.

I stayed bent over the bed, legs shaking, his cum leaking down my thighs. My pussy throbbed, unsatisfied, still clenching around nothing.

I pushed myself upright, legs unsteady. In the mirror across the room, I looked wrecked. Hair messed, lipstick smeared, breasts spilling out of the lace bra, thighs sticky with his release.

I cleaned myself up with tissues from the nightstand, too exhausted to shower. By the time Liam emerged, I'd changed into a nightgown and was under the covers, facing away from his side of the bed.

He didn't speak. Just climbed in, turned off his lamp, and within minutes his breathing evened into sleep.

I lay awake for hours, staring at nothing.

Morning arrived with weak sunlight through the curtains. I'd managed maybe a few hours of sleep, dreaming in fractured pieces about depositions and courtrooms and Liam's face going blank every time I tried to speak.

Isabella's laughter drifted from downstairs. I pulled on a robe and followed the sound to the kitchen, where she sat at the island eating pancakes while Maria, our housekeeper, cleaned counters.

"Mommy!" Isabella grinned, syrup on her chin. "Daddy made pancakes!"

Liam stood at the stove, still in his pajama pants and t-shirt, flipping another pancake with practiced ease.

"Morning." I poured coffee, needing the caffeine more than food.

"Morning." He didn't look at me. "There's batter left if you want some."

"I'm fine."

Isabella chattered about school, her friend Emma's birthday party next week, and wanting a puppy, even though we'd told her no a hundred times. Liam made appropriate noises and smiled at the right moments.

His phone kept buzzing. He checked it between responses to Isabella, thumbs moving quickly over the screen. A small smile played at his lips as he typed.

My stomach turned sour. I set down my coffee cup.

"Who keeps texting you?"

"Work." He pocketed the phone. "Nothing important."

"You're smiling at work emails now?"

"Evelyn." A warning again, same tone as last night. "Not in front of Isabella."

I bit back my response. He was right. Whatever this was, it didn't belong at the breakfast table with our daughter.

"Fine." I stood, rinsed my barely touched coffee down the sink. "I have errands."

Neither of them seemed to notice when I left.

The day dragged. I drove to Bergdorf's, looked at dresses I didn't need, and had lunch with Amanda Whitmore, who spent an hour complaining about her tennis instructor's incompetence. I smiled and nodded, feeling like I was floating three feet outside my own body, watching some other woman pretend her life wasn't imploding.

When I returned home, Liam's car was in the driveway. Unusual. He normally didn't get back until after Isabella's bedtime.

I found him in his study, door open, nursing a glass of amber liquid at his desk. The room smelled like leather and old books, masculine and expensive. He looked up when I entered.

"Close the door."

My heart dropped. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He took a sip of his drink. Whiskey, probably the Macallan he kept for special occasions. He didn't offer me any. "I wanted to talk."

I sank into the chair across from his desk, smoothed my skirt. "Okay."

"This isn't working, Evelyn."

The words hit like a fist. "What isn't?"

"Us. This." He gestured vaguely between us. "I'm not happy."

"Neither am I." The admission came easier than expected. "But we can fix it. Therapy, maybe. Or we could take a trip, just the two of us."

"I don't want to fix it." He leaned back, swirled his whiskey. "I want an open marriage."

Silence crashed over the room. I stared at him, certain I'd misheard.

"You want what?"

"An open marriage. We stay married for Isabella's sake, for appearances."

"You want to fuck other women."

"Don't be crass."

I laughed, sharp and bitter. "I'm being crass? You just asked permission to cheat on me."

"It's not cheating if we both agree."

"I don't agree."

"Then that's your choice." He drained his glass, poured another two fingers. "But I'm doing this regardless."

The room tilted. I gripped the chair arms. "There's someone already."

Not a question. He didn't deny it.

"Chloe's pregnant. With my heir." He said it like a business transaction.