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.