Married To A Monster's Shadow

ears, I was the silent architect of his empire, the perfect wife who managed his life so he could

pturing. It was hers. Thousands of explicit photos of a model named Dahlia,

m, he called me emot

lery opening. Dahlia had me drugged and a

the next room with her

ray me. He abandon

was a monster. And I wasn't just going to divorce hi

pte

as familiar as my own heartbeat. He smiled, that perfect, practiced smile, and the crowd roared. I watched him from my seat, a proud wife, a hidden partne

perfect life. It was a discord I' d learned to ignore, a tiny static in the otherwise harmonious symphon

es. "And to my muse," he began, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that still carried to every corner of the room, "my beautiful wife, Erin. Y

thing in the world. He made it sound like a vow, a sacred promise. I forced a smile, my cheeks aching. My heart, however, felt a tiny

n of public adoration and private distance. I had planned a quiet evening, just us. I' d eve

ee. The sun streamed into our spotless kitchen, highlighting the dus

ugh his phone. "Yes, love?

you could photograph me. Just for us. Like you always say, 'keep my be

se, were clouded with something I couldn't quite place.

on't mix business with pleasure. My art is my

ast night, you said I was your muse.

public. You know how these things work." He took a sip of his coffee, avoiding my gaze. "Besides,

tone. "Personal projects? That's what our an

y nerves. "Look, I have a meeting. Let's not make a big deal out o

e creaking as he swung it off the counter. He was already

voice barely a whisper. "

e of annoyance. "I don't photograph you. I never have. That's our thing." He didn't wait for

had let myself hope, foolishly. I had believed his public declarations, his

in in my chest. He never photographs me. That's our thing. His words echoed, ho

of me taken by a friend years ago. Evan had always admired it, always

" downtown. A space he leased, supposedly for experimental projects too raw for his main studio. He rarely spok

f it w

spare key in his desk drawer, tucked beneath a stack of old bills. It felt almost too easy. My

he lock, a quiet click echoing in the empty hallway. The studio inside was darker, dustier t

lace, almost like a piece of furniture meant to be hidden in plain sight. My fingers brushed ag

, were dozens of photo albums. Not just albums, but thick, leather-b

spine embossed with a

ise to fame had mysteriously coincided with Evan' s recent, darker, more ed

ses that pushed boundaries. Expressions that were both vulnerable and defiant. This wasn't professional art. This was obsession. Each page turned was a fresh wound, a new wave of nausea

rations about me. He claimed he kept my beauty for himself, yet he meticulously

hlia's face, her eyes half-closed, a smirk playing on her lips. And on the b

On our anniversary. The same morning he had coldly refused to photograph me, claimi

h the shock. It wasn' t just a betrayal. It was a meticulously crafte

open behind me. "Erin? W

ing that looked like fear. He stood framed in the doorway, the ha

mix business with pleasure, Evan," I said, my voice shockingly calm, a flat monotone I barely recognized as my own. My ha

's not what you think. This is... art. Experimental. Nothing

scramble in their depths. "Art?" I echoed, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. "Is this art, Evan? Or is thi

is purely for artistic exploration. You know I'm always pushing boundaries." He started to move towards me, his

o busy for us? You were here, with her, creating this?" My gaze swept around the room, taking in the evidence of his

We explore. We create. You, of all people, should understand that." His tone shifted, becoming condescending, dism

stood on stage last night, Evan, telling the world I was your muse, that you kept my beauty for yourself. And all this time, you had this secret, expl

willing to push artistic boundaries? You're being irrational. You're jealous. This is exac

ult of your deliberate deceit, Evan. Your lies. Your betrayal." The words

sensitive, Erin. You're imagining things. It's just a friendly text. You know how models are, always clinging. Ev

s, hung heavy in the air. It was a desperate plea, a final test. "Or w

ust annoyance at being caught? "Of course I love you, Erin," he said, too quickly, too

e table, beside his camera bag. His eyes darted to it, then to me. The

ed the phone. "I... I have to take t

y voice raw. "You're going to

ess meeting, Erin. You're being unreasonable." He turned, already halfway out

final attempt. He paused, his hand

ed the door open, and walked out. The click of the lock reverberated through t

me. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Hudson, my childhood friend, reminding me he'd booked a table at ou

the screen. My birthday was tomorrow. I typed ou

is a lie. And I'm done. Don't bot

rrow, I would finally turn the page on this chapter of my life. A new page