Genre Fiction
![Hannah Sloane - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BQ5DF6FC.jpg)
The Freedom Clause: A Novel
What happens if you find your true love too soon? Could one night off a year save your marriage-or destroy it? In this bold and sexy debut, a young couple discovers that a little freedom has surprising consequences.
"A delicious novel . . . Nora Ephron fans will delight in this debut."-Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
Dominic and Daphne met in their first week of college, and they've been happily married for three years. They love each other deeply but perhaps have become too comfortable, and their sex life isn't what anyone would call thrilling. So, on New Year's Day, Dominic blurts out a suggestion before it's fully worked out in his mind: what if they open up their marriage?
Daphne reluctantly agrees-with conditions. They can sleep with one other person, one night a year, and the agreement has a five-year expiration date. It's not a total free-for-all on their vows, but an amendment. They call it the Freedom Clause.
It isn't long before Daphne and Dominic find themselves-and their marriage-altered in unexpected ways. Embracing the spirit of the Clause, Daphne pushes herself to be more assertive in asking for what she wants. She begins chronicling her journey of self-discovery in an anonymous newsletter, sharing recipes inspired by her conquests, and soon realizes that one night off a year isn't a small change . . . it's a seismic one.
Eventually, Daphne and Dominic are reconsidering everything-each other, their relationship, and themselves. Can they survive the Freedom Clause? Do they even want to?
"A delicious novel . . . Nora Ephron fans will delight in this debut."-Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
Dominic and Daphne met in their first week of college, and they've been happily married for three years. They love each other deeply but perhaps have become too comfortable, and their sex life isn't what anyone would call thrilling. So, on New Year's Day, Dominic blurts out a suggestion before it's fully worked out in his mind: what if they open up their marriage?
Daphne reluctantly agrees-with conditions. They can sleep with one other person, one night a year, and the agreement has a five-year expiration date. It's not a total free-for-all on their vows, but an amendment. They call it the Freedom Clause.
It isn't long before Daphne and Dominic find themselves-and their marriage-altered in unexpected ways. Embracing the spirit of the Clause, Daphne pushes herself to be more assertive in asking for what she wants. She begins chronicling her journey of self-discovery in an anonymous newsletter, sharing recipes inspired by her conquests, and soon realizes that one night off a year isn't a small change . . . it's a seismic one.
Eventually, Daphne and Dominic are reconsidering everything-each other, their relationship, and themselves. Can they survive the Freedom Clause? Do they even want to?
Editorial Reviews
"The Freedom Clause is a delicious novel featuring rich, complex characters exploring deep questions: How can we love fully and remain true to ourselves? What happens when lovers bound by marriage try one night of freedom per year? I couldn't put the book down and cheered at the perfect conclusion. Nora Ephron fans will delight in this debut."-Amanda Eyre Ward,New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
"You'll want second helpings of this delectable, sexy debut about a woman learning how to prioritize her pleasure. I ate it right up."-Courtney Maum, author of The Year of the Horses
"A raw and propulsive portrait of a marriage on the brink, Sloane's novel is fun, surprising, and nuanced. The Freedom Clause will expand your perspective on what true fulfillment can look like with an exciting, unique bonus: delicious recipes!"-Caitlin Barasch, author of A Novel Obsession
"An honest, empowering, and sexy tale of a young woman finding her voice, finding her strength, and finding great orgasms along the way."-Taylor Hahn, author of The Lifestyle
"The Freedom Clause is a bold, honest examination of a young marriage that hooked me from its first page. Creative in concept, rich in self-discovery, and written with warmth and nuance, Sloane's is a saucy and smart debut you won't want to miss."-Carola Lovering, author of Tell Me Lies and Can't Look Away
"As surprising as the proposal itself, The Freedom Clause is a beautifully written deep dive into marriage and the critical importance of finding one's own voice. This novel is an emotional journey that reads like a thriller-I couldn't put it down."-Annabel Monaghan, author of Nora Goes Off Script
"You'll want second helpings of this delectable, sexy debut about a woman learning how to prioritize her pleasure. I ate it right up."-Courtney Maum, author of The Year of the Horses
"A raw and propulsive portrait of a marriage on the brink, Sloane's novel is fun, surprising, and nuanced. The Freedom Clause will expand your perspective on what true fulfillment can look like with an exciting, unique bonus: delicious recipes!"-Caitlin Barasch, author of A Novel Obsession
"An honest, empowering, and sexy tale of a young woman finding her voice, finding her strength, and finding great orgasms along the way."-Taylor Hahn, author of The Lifestyle
"The Freedom Clause is a bold, honest examination of a young marriage that hooked me from its first page. Creative in concept, rich in self-discovery, and written with warmth and nuance, Sloane's is a saucy and smart debut you won't want to miss."-Carola Lovering, author of Tell Me Lies and Can't Look Away
"As surprising as the proposal itself, The Freedom Clause is a beautifully written deep dive into marriage and the critical importance of finding one's own voice. This novel is an emotional journey that reads like a thriller-I couldn't put it down."-Annabel Monaghan, author of Nora Goes Off Script
Short Excerpt Teaser
The Agreement
New Year's Day. Dominic wakes up and his hangover greets him immediately. His back sticks to the sheets, coated in a sheen of sweat. His breaths are soft and shallow. With closed eyes, his hand skims blindly along the bedside table, landing on a familiar shape. But there are no texts, no interesting emails to read. He opens and closes Twitter, followed by Instagram and, in a fleeting fit of boredom, LinkedIn. It's noon, and he feels a familiar twinge of guilt. Daphne has been up for hours. He hears the spin of a laundry cycle nearing completion. Dirty plates scrubbed clean. The kettle's high and angry whistle. His wife's productivity puts his own to shame. He should help, Dominic thinks, swinging his legs off the bed. He reaches for a discarded sweatshirt, navy and hooded, and pulls it over his head. Opening the door, the scent of lunch wafts toward him. His stomach rumbles happily.
"Daph-ne," he calls out, aiming for singsongy, but his voice is a low croak.
He finds her leaning over the kitchen counter in a faded white top, denim jeans that hug her curves. She doesn't see him. Humming along to Spotify, clutching a pen delicately in her right hand, she's absorbed in her notepad. Dog-eared and tattered, it contains recipes she's crafted over the years, annotated with painstaking precision. Her damp hair hangs in loose curls. Small beads of water drip down her back. She looks fresh and energetic, the opposite of him. The kitchen surfaces gleam and sparkle, the heavy scent of synthetic lemon and lavender hangs in the air. He feels clammy and parched and gross but he can't help himself; he hugs her from behind, pecking her neck with small kisses and breathing in her scent, a mix of honeysuckle and citrus. His hands glide over her hips, and lower, toward her thighs. He nuzzles his nose and lips into the back of her neck in what he hopes is a seductive manner.
"Morning, sunshine!" He attempts a sexy drawl, but it's a hoarse bellow.
"God, you scared me!" she shrieks, swatting him away.
"You look great," he murmurs into her ear, softer this time, and he tries again, his hand hovering lightly against her hip.
She elbows him in the ribs. "I'm busy here, get off!"
So much for trying to start the new year on a spicy note, he thinks, shoulders sagging in defeat. Embarrassed by his pathetic seduction attempt, he switches topic.
"Grilled cheese?" he asks, snaking a hand past her.
She slaps his wrist affectionately. "Not yet. Here, take some of this."
She places something in his hand. A bottle of Nurofen."You're the best," he sighs. "And you made coffee."
"With frothy milk!" She beams proudly.
"Wow," he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest. "You used a present from The Parents already!"
The Parents: Nigel and Plumb, neither of whom treat their daughter well, and his dad and Sadie. Dominic's mum passed away a few years ago and the less said about that, he thinks, reaching past Daphne for a mug, the better.
"Is the milk frother our favorite Christmas gift this year?" he asks.
"Let's think about this," Daphne responds, tilting her head to one side. "My parents got their least favorite child a teeny-tiny cashmere sweater, which could be a genuine mistake . . . or a vague insinuation to lose weight?"
Daphne couldn't get the sweater over her head, it was that tiny. It was a ridiculous move from her parents, especially given her body is amazing, she just doesn't believe it. He once told her she looked like she belonged in a different century. It was meant to be a compliment, he pictured Vermeer painting her portrait, immortalizing her features. Her response: back when women were allowed to be bigger. Why did her mind go there? He wasn't talking about the proportions of her hips and calves (all perfect); but his wife sees herself as unattractive. And maybe he's to blame? Maybe he hasn't done enough to make up for the years she was torn down, her confidence shredded? They laughed about the sweater on Christmas Day but he noticed the hurt in her eyes. He catches it again now as she laughs it off.
"I think it's kitchen gadgets for the win," Daphne adds, flashing him a smile.
She's talking about his dad and Sadie, the practical gifts they send, arriving promptly in the third week of December each year, without fail.
"Right," he snorts, "because nothing says sorry-I-abandoned-you-for-six-years-before-taking-a-detached-interest-in-you-again like: the instant pot!"
"Or the compost caddy!" she chimes in, referring to a few years ago.
"Or the water filtration pitcher!"
Daphne tilts her head back and laughs. She has a lovely laugh, honeyed...
New Year's Day. Dominic wakes up and his hangover greets him immediately. His back sticks to the sheets, coated in a sheen of sweat. His breaths are soft and shallow. With closed eyes, his hand skims blindly along the bedside table, landing on a familiar shape. But there are no texts, no interesting emails to read. He opens and closes Twitter, followed by Instagram and, in a fleeting fit of boredom, LinkedIn. It's noon, and he feels a familiar twinge of guilt. Daphne has been up for hours. He hears the spin of a laundry cycle nearing completion. Dirty plates scrubbed clean. The kettle's high and angry whistle. His wife's productivity puts his own to shame. He should help, Dominic thinks, swinging his legs off the bed. He reaches for a discarded sweatshirt, navy and hooded, and pulls it over his head. Opening the door, the scent of lunch wafts toward him. His stomach rumbles happily.
"Daph-ne," he calls out, aiming for singsongy, but his voice is a low croak.
He finds her leaning over the kitchen counter in a faded white top, denim jeans that hug her curves. She doesn't see him. Humming along to Spotify, clutching a pen delicately in her right hand, she's absorbed in her notepad. Dog-eared and tattered, it contains recipes she's crafted over the years, annotated with painstaking precision. Her damp hair hangs in loose curls. Small beads of water drip down her back. She looks fresh and energetic, the opposite of him. The kitchen surfaces gleam and sparkle, the heavy scent of synthetic lemon and lavender hangs in the air. He feels clammy and parched and gross but he can't help himself; he hugs her from behind, pecking her neck with small kisses and breathing in her scent, a mix of honeysuckle and citrus. His hands glide over her hips, and lower, toward her thighs. He nuzzles his nose and lips into the back of her neck in what he hopes is a seductive manner.
"Morning, sunshine!" He attempts a sexy drawl, but it's a hoarse bellow.
"God, you scared me!" she shrieks, swatting him away.
"You look great," he murmurs into her ear, softer this time, and he tries again, his hand hovering lightly against her hip.
She elbows him in the ribs. "I'm busy here, get off!"
So much for trying to start the new year on a spicy note, he thinks, shoulders sagging in defeat. Embarrassed by his pathetic seduction attempt, he switches topic.
"Grilled cheese?" he asks, snaking a hand past her.
She slaps his wrist affectionately. "Not yet. Here, take some of this."
She places something in his hand. A bottle of Nurofen."You're the best," he sighs. "And you made coffee."
"With frothy milk!" She beams proudly.
"Wow," he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest. "You used a present from The Parents already!"
The Parents: Nigel and Plumb, neither of whom treat their daughter well, and his dad and Sadie. Dominic's mum passed away a few years ago and the less said about that, he thinks, reaching past Daphne for a mug, the better.
"Is the milk frother our favorite Christmas gift this year?" he asks.
"Let's think about this," Daphne responds, tilting her head to one side. "My parents got their least favorite child a teeny-tiny cashmere sweater, which could be a genuine mistake . . . or a vague insinuation to lose weight?"
Daphne couldn't get the sweater over her head, it was that tiny. It was a ridiculous move from her parents, especially given her body is amazing, she just doesn't believe it. He once told her she looked like she belonged in a different century. It was meant to be a compliment, he pictured Vermeer painting her portrait, immortalizing her features. Her response: back when women were allowed to be bigger. Why did her mind go there? He wasn't talking about the proportions of her hips and calves (all perfect); but his wife sees herself as unattractive. And maybe he's to blame? Maybe he hasn't done enough to make up for the years she was torn down, her confidence shredded? They laughed about the sweater on Christmas Day but he noticed the hurt in her eyes. He catches it again now as she laughs it off.
"I think it's kitchen gadgets for the win," Daphne adds, flashing him a smile.
She's talking about his dad and Sadie, the practical gifts they send, arriving promptly in the third week of December each year, without fail.
"Right," he snorts, "because nothing says sorry-I-abandoned-you-for-six-years-before-taking-a-detached-interest-in-you-again like: the instant pot!"
"Or the compost caddy!" she chimes in, referring to a few years ago.
"Or the water filtration pitcher!"
Daphne tilts her head back and laughs. She has a lovely laugh, honeyed...
