His Artistic Muse
My husband, Julian, was one of New York City's top conceptual artists.
To find inspiration for his new series, "Vanishing Intimacy," he invited his new muse, Chloe, into our Brooklyn home.
He swore it was purely professional and proposed a "performative separation."
But when he hit a creative wall, he confessed that every touch they shared was reigniting his fading inspiration.
"Elena, I promise, as soon as this series is finished, I'll let her go. My heart will always belong to you and Leo."
In the end, I didn't see Chloe leave. Instead, Julian served me with divorce papers.
He said this, too, was "part of his performance art."
I didn't shed a tear or raise my voice. I simply signed the divorce papers and walked out with our son in my arms.
Later, when I reappeared with a brand new identity, Julian grabbed my wrist, his eyes bloodshot, and demanded:
"Elena, how dare you become my rival's muse!"