Love Gone Hollow

By the fifth year of my marriage to Noah Lester, everyone insisted that I, Emma Newman, was his eternal muse.

But I knew the truth.

Behind my back, Noah cycled through a parade of fresh-faced, eager lovers. He even flaunted them at social gatherings, swapping one for another with shameless ease.

When friends teased him—"Didn’t you swear Emma was the love of your life? Why the revolving door of mistresses?"—he’d just laugh, arms slung around his latest conquests.

"Once you’ve caught your muse the glow fades. Give me someone new and tender any day—at least they keep things exciting."

So I began plotting my escape.

What Noah never realized was that I had grown tired of him, too. Tired of this life, of these performances.

I was done.

I was carrying a lunchbox to Noah Lester’s office.

It was already late at night, and the building had emptied hours ago.

Only the lights in Noah’s office still burned brightly.

The sharp click of my heels echoed down the hallway, but it couldn’t drown out the soft moans coming from his office.

He and his new secretary hadn’t even bothered to shut the door properly.

I could clearly hear their voices.

“Mr. Lester,” she purred. “You’re always so rough with me. Tell me—am I the one you love most?”

Through the narrow crack in the door, I saw Jill Spencer draped across his body.

He must’ve been drinking as his words were slurred, but I couldn’t tell how much of what he said was true.

“Love you? Don’t be ridiculous. I just like doing you. The one I love most is obviously my wife.

“She’s my muse—my first love, the one I cherished in my youth. She’s the love of my life. No one will ever come close.”

I stood frozen in place.

My hand gripped the doorknob, but I couldn’t bring myself to push it open.

How ironic.

Here I was, witnessing my husband’s infidelity with my own eyes, while he whispered declarations of love for me.

My heart shattered into pieces. I bit down so hard on the inside of my cheek that I could almost taste blood.

Noah had made a vicious oath the day he proposed to me.

“If I ever betray Emma Newman, let me die a horrible death—hit by a car, choked on water, drowned in the bath…”

But I hadn’t let him finish.

I’d cut him off, laughing as I looked up at him with eyes full of trust.

“If you ever betray me, I’ll punish you in my own way! I hope you never live to see that day, Noah!”

He used to hold me close with such tenderness, always saying that day would never come.

And I believed him.

I never imagined the man who once sacrificed his health to save my life, the man whose hair turned half-gray before thirty from donating his bone marrow to me, would ever betray me.

Ten years of love.

Ten years of lies.

And now,