Chapter 2

The world outside the studio felt alien, distorted by the raw wound Evan had inflicted. I drove home on autopilot, the city lights blurring into streaks of indifferent color. Our beautiful house, once a sanctuary, now loomed like a gilded cage. Every corner held a memory, each one tainted by the reveal of his secret life.

I spent the night in a haze of pain and disbelief. Sleep wouldn' t come. Every time my eyes fluttered shut, I saw Dahlia' s face, her intimate expressions, captured perfectly by Evan' s lens. I heard his dismissive words, his hollow promises. The man I loved was a phantom, a well-crafted illusion.

His public declarations, the ones where he claimed I was his one true muse, now felt like a cruel joke. He' d built an entire narrative around me, a flawless facade for his adoring public, while secretly worshipping at the altar of another woman's body and ambition. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth, acrid and unforgettable.

The first rays of dawn crept through the bedroom window, marking the beginning of my birthday. My 35th birthday. The day I was supposed to feel cherished, celebrated. Instead, I felt hollowed out, flayed open.

My phone buzzed, a jarring sound in the heavy silence. It wasn' t Evan. Not an apology, not an explanation. It was an anonymous message. A link. My heart lurched, a cold premonition gripping me. With trembling fingers, I tapped it open.

A video started playing. It was a shaky, low-quality clip, clearly filmed in secret. My breath caught in my throat. It was Evan. And Dahlia. They were in a dimly lit room, the same studio I' d found yesterday. They were laughing, bodies pressed together, a raw, undeniable intimacy in their movements. His hands lingered on her, possessive, adoring. He was whispering something in her ear, and her head tilted back, a smile of pure triumph on her face.

It wasn't just a betrayal of vows. It was a betrayal of trust, of dignity. It was everything he denied, played out on a grainy screen. A wave of nausea washed over me, so strong I had to gasp for air. It wasn't just heartbreak anymore. It was disgust. Pure, unadulterated revulsion. The images burned into my mind, scorching every tender memory I had of him.

He actually did this to me. My mind screamed. On our anniversary. On my birthday.

The anger, cold and sharp, ignited within me. It wasn't the quiet simmer from yesterday. This was a roaring inferno. He had gaslighted me, lied to me, made me feel crazy for questioning his devotion. He had treated me like a fool, and all the while, he was performing this obscene charade with her.

A dangerous thought, born of pure rage, began to form. He reveled in his public image, his carefully constructed persona of the devoted artist. What would happen if that image shattered? What if his carefully curated world crumbled?

My fingers flew across the screen, a desperate need for retribution coursing through me. I found the most damning photo from 'The Dahlia Project' albums, the one dated this morning. The one that screamed intimate betrayal. I combined it with a screenshot from the anonymous video, blurring Dahlia's explicit pose just enough to make it suggestive without being overtly illegal. Then, with a chilling calmness I didn't know I possessed, I posted it. Not on my personal page. On a popular art critic's public forum, known for its brutal honesty and wide reach. I added a single, cryptic caption: "The muse he keeps for himself. Happy anniversary, Evan."

The phone rang instantly. Evan. His picture flashed on the screen, his perfect smile now a mocking grimace. I let it ring. And ring. And ring.

Finally, I picked up. "What, Evan?" My voice was steady, betraying none of the earthquake raging inside me.

"ERIN! What the hell have you done?!" His voice was a guttural roar, raw with fury. "That post! Those pictures! Are you out of your mind?!"

"Oh, it's 'Erin' now, is it?" I retorted, a bitter laugh escaping. "Not 'love,' not 'muse'? Funny how quickly your language changes when your precious reputation is at stake."

"My reputation? What about Dahlia's?! You've slandered her! You've ruined her career! Do you have any idea what this will do to her? To me? To everything I've worked for?" He sounded genuinely distraught, but not for me. Never for me.

"Her career?" I scoffed. "You mean the career she's building on my shattered marriage? The career you're fueling with explicit photos you take on our anniversary? After you lied to my face?"

"She's a victim here, Erin! A professional model caught in a malicious act of revenge!" he spat, his voice thick with unadulterated rage. "You're a psychopath! A jealous, vindictive woman!"

"A victim?" My blood ran cold, then boiled. "She's a victim? What about me, Evan? What about our marriage? What about ten years of my life I poured into you, into us, only to find you were living a double life with her?"

"This isn't about you, Erin! Not anymore! This is about a professional smear campaign! You think you can just destroy people's lives because you're feeling neglected?" His voice was laced with venom. "You're going to regret this, I swear to God."

He hung up, the silence that followed even heavier than before. The ringing in my ears was deafening. I hadn't expected regret from him, but I hadn't expected this aggressive, defensive rage for her either. He didn't even acknowledge his own wrongdoing, only my supposed "malicious act."

A knock echoed through the house, then the doorbell chimed, insistent and sharp. My heart pounded. He couldn't be here already.

I opened the door cautiously. Standing there, framed against the morning light, was Dahlia Allen. Her eyes were wide, brimming with tears, her face a mask of distraught innocence. She wore a simple white dress, looking every inch the wronged ingenue. The irony was suffocating.

"Erin," she choked out, her voice trembling. "How could you? How could you do this?" Her hands were clasped at her chest, as if in prayer. "You've ruined me. My career, my reputation... everything."

Before I could respond, Evan's car screeched to a halt behind her. He strode up the path, his face a thundercloud. He didn't even look at me. His gaze was fixed on Dahlia, concern etched on his features.

"Dahlia, are you alright?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle, his hand reaching out to her. He pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair as she buried her face in his chest, sobbing theatrically.

Then he looked at me, and his eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth. "Look at what you've done, Erin," he snarled, his arm still around Dahlia. "She's inconsolable. You've attacked an innocent woman."

"Innocent?" I repeated, my voice rising. "She's innocent? She's been sleeping with my husband, Evan, for years! She's posed for explicit photos with him on our anniversary! And I'm the one who's attacked her?"

"She was just a model doing her job!" Evan insisted, pulling Dahlia closer. "You're twisting everything. You're jealous, psychotic. This is why I kept her a secret from you!"

Dahlia lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes, miraculously, dry. But her mouth was twisted into a pout. "I never meant for this to happen, Erin. I just admired his art. He said you understood his artistic process." Her words were a soft, poisonous whisper, perfectly crafted to wound.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," I said, my voice shaking with a dangerous calm. "You knew he was married. You knew he was lying to me. And you encouraged it. You reveled in it."

"This is over, Evan," I stated, the words cutting through the air like a knife. "Our marriage. Everything. I want a divorce."

His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his face. But it was quickly replaced by anger. "You want a divorce? Because of a few pictures? Because you're having a jealous fit?" He stepped towards me, his face contorted. "You think you can just throw away everything we've built?"

"Everything you built on lies," I corrected, standing my ground. "I'm done being your supportive wife, your silent partner, your public muse. I'm done being fooled."

He lunged forward, his hand grabbing my arm. His grip was viselike, painfully tight. "You're not going anywhere, Erin. You're my wife. You belong to me." He dragged me closer, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and angry. "You don't get to decide this."

A sharp pain shot through my arm as he twisted it. I cried out, more in surprise than agony. He released me, a sudden flicker of something that looked like regret in his eyes. Just for a second.

Then he saw Dahlia, still watching, her expression unreadable. He quickly reverted, his face hardening. "Look what you made me do, Erin!" he yelled, pointing a finger at me. "Your melodrama, your accusations! You push me to this!"

I stumbled back, clutching my bruised arm. I didn't say a word. The pain was secondary to the chilling realization that had just slammed into me. He didn' t just lie. He was capable of physical aggression. And he had blamed it on me.

He turned to Dahlia, his voice softening once more. "Come on, Dahlia. Let's get you inside. You don't need to witness this spectacle." He guided her past me, his body shielding her from my gaze. He didn't spare me a glance, didn't ask if I was okay, didn't even acknowledge the red mark blooming on my arm.

They walked inside, their voices low and comforting. I heard Dahlia's feigned sobs, Evan's murmured reassurances. They were a united front, two against one. Me. Alone.

As I watched them disappear into the house, a profound, sickening clarity washed over me. I had never truly mattered to him, not in the way a wife should. I was a prop, a part of his narrative, a convenient accessory to his ambition. His public declarations, his private denials – it was all a game, and I was merely a pawn.

But no more.

I took a deep breath, the pain in my arm a dull throb. The anger had solidified into a cold, unbreakable resolve. I would not just leave. I would dismantle his empire, piece by piece, just as he had dismantled my heart.

I walked back into the house, but not into the life I had known. I bypassed the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, all repositories of a broken dream. I went straight to my office, my sanctuary, the space where I' d planned his every move, his every success.

My fingers, still trembling slightly, typed an email. To Hudson Wilcox. My steadfast friend, my rock. And, crucially, a sharp, successful corporate lawyer.

"Hudson," I wrote, the words stark and unwavering, "I need you. I need a divorce. And I need to make sure Evan Briggs pays for what he's done."

I pressed send. The digital click was final. I started packing my essential documents, my laptop, my emergency bag. The legal papers from Hudson would arrive soon enough. Evan would be confused. He would be angry. But he would be too late.

I needed to leave. Before he came back, before he could deny, gaslight, or manipulate me again. I needed to escape the gilded cage. I gathered a few clothes, tossed them into a duffel bag, and slipped out the back door, leaving behind everything but my shattered dignity and newfound resolve.

As I drove away, I saw Evan' s car pull back into the driveway. His frantic knocking on the front door echoed in the silence of the empty house. He would find my note soon. He would find my absence. And he would realize, perhaps for the first time, what he had truly lost.

But it was too late. The first step towards my new life had already been taken. I wouldn' t be looking back.