Chapter 4 – Cracks In The Glass
416 Words
Success has a way of feeding you until you forget you’re starving for something else.
My life became a whirl of camera flashes and high heels. Magazine shoots, launch parties, interviews — my schedule filled up before I could breathe. People started recognizing me on the streets. “C’est Sharon Duval!” they’d whisper. I’d smile, pose, wave.
But somewhere between the champagne toasts and the hotel lights, I stopped hearing Mike’s voice.
He’d watch my interviews from home — the ones where I talked about “empowerment” and “confidence.” But when I came back late at night, he was always half-asleep, or pretending to be.
One evening, I got home from a fashion gala — diamonds around my neck, laughter still ringing in my ears — and found him waiting on the couch, his laptop open but untouched.
He looked up at me, his eyes tired. “You look beautiful, Sharon. But I miss my wife.”
I froze. “I’m still your wife, Mike.”
He shook his head slowly. “No. You’re everyone’s now. Their muse. Their fantasy. Not mine.”
His voice didn’t rise, but something in it broke.
For the first time, I didn’t know what to say. The silence between us was thick, unfamiliar.
Later that week, he skipped my campaign dinner — said he had work. I sat there under the glowing chandeliers, surrounded by applause, and felt lonelier than I ever had. My phone stayed dark.
When I got home, the lights were off. I found him asleep on the couch again — or pretending to be. I stood over him for a long time, wanting to touch his hair, to whisper I was still me. But I didn’t. I just turned and walked to our bedroom alone.
Every time I looked in the mirror now, I saw the woman in red — bold, adored, but hollow-eyed.
Then came the breaking point.
A video from one of my shoots went viral — a behind-the-scenes clip of me laughing, my hand brushing against my male co-model’s arm. The comments were merciless. But Mike didn’t say a word.
He simply moved into the guest room.
That night, I sat on the floor of my closet, surrounded by silk and lace and noise. The silence of the apartment felt louder than any applause I’d ever received.
And for the first time since that red dress, I realized — I had become a stranger in my own love story.
- Writer
