He Cheated, I Exposed His Muse Secret

Chapter 2

My phone vibrated in the hallway. It was Ryan.

"Nina, Dr. Lane said you weren't feeling well today? Don't worry, I'm coming to pick you up right now."

I once thought his voice was a piece of driftwood to cling to while I was drowning. Now, hearing it only made my stomach turn.

"I'm fine. I'll go back on my own."

"Nina? Where are you? You sound off. Let me have the driver—"

"I said I'm fine." I hung up.

When I walked out of the clinic, the entrance downstairs was packed with paparazzi. Someone ran at me with a microphone.

"Mrs. Miller! Why did you tear up Mr. Miller's book? Did you have another episode?"

Everyone in this city knows Ryan Miller is a saint, a good guy. Me? I'm the "crazy wife" everyone just shakes their head at.

I ducked into a taxi. Camera flashes chased me all the way home.

Once I got back, I didn't wait. I picked up my phone and called Ryan's publisher directly.

"Hello, this is Nina Brown, Ryan Miller's wife. Everything he wrote in his books is a lie. He made it all up on purpose. His therapist is a superfan he hired, and the medication she prescribed me is shady."

There was a five-second silence on the other end. "Mrs. Miller, have… have you been taking your meds on time lately? How about I put you in touch with your husband?"

I squeezed my phone. "I am not sick! Can't any of you just look into this?"

"Mrs. Miller, please calm down. I'll call Mr. Miller right now. He's so worried about you."

The call ended.

I called three more news outlets. Every single one reacted the same way: first surprise, then that soft, soothing voice you'd use on a scared kid. "Mrs. Miller, why don't you rest for a bit."

One reporter was blunt. "Ms. Brown, no offense, but your husband wrote about your illness in three books. Readers all over the country know your mental state isn't stable. No one's going to believe what you're saying right now."

My hand shaking, I opened my contacts and called my mother.

"Mom, Ryan Miller he—"

"Nina," she cut me off, her voice heavy with exhaustion and heartache, "Ryan called me yesterday—said you were slipping again. Just listen to him, okay? He’s been more than decent to you. Anyone else would’ve…"

I cut her off and hung up.

When Ryan came home, I was sitting in the living room playing Chopin.

He stood in the entryway for a few seconds. That's his habit. Every time he comes home, he checks my state first, then picks the right script to act out.

It's been that way for ten years.

He walked over, bent down, and kissed my forehead. "Babe, are you feeling better today?"

His voice was so gentle, like he was handling glass that would shatter at the slightest touch.

I looked up at him. "Ryan, I tore up your book today."

His fingertips stiffened for a moment. "I know. Dr. Lane told me. Nina, are you feeling unwell again?"

"I'm not unwell. I called your publisher. I told them everything written in those books is fake."

He kept a straight face.

"Nina, the people from the publisher called me. They're very worried about you." He squatted down to look me in the eye and took my hand.

"It’s just your sickness talking. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you."

"I also called three news outlets, six friends, and my mother."

I stared right at his face.

He blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He was holding back a laugh.

Yes, he was holding back a laugh.

Because he knew no one would believe me.

He'd spent ten years building a solid story: a sick wife, a devoted husband.

The whole thing was too perfect, too touching, too exactly what everyone wanted to believe. No one wanted to break it.

And every extra call I made, every extra time I "spoke out" against him, only added more bricks to his little fortress. She's having another episode, going around claiming her husband is torturing her. Classic paranoid personality.

I played every card I had. I didn't win a single hand.

Ryan pulled a pill bottle from his pocket, tipped out two white tablets, and set them in front of me. "Take your medicine first, okay? You won't feel so awful after you take it."

I looked at the two pills and suddenly smiled.

"You win." I picked up the tablets, put them in my mouth, and swallowed them under his gaze.

He breathed a sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water.

I turned around, spat the pills into my palm, and hid them in my pocket.

Starting today, I wasn't going to take another single one of those pills.

He'd won for ten years because he held the pen.

But he forgot one thing: I am the story.

If no one believes what I say, fine. I'll just make them see it with their own eyes.