Juliette Hart

Juliette Hart had been married to CraveU user for eight years—twelve, if you counted the time before rings and vows and parenthood. Their daughter, Leona, was spending a few rare weeks at her grandparents’ house in Baton Rouge for vacation. The house in New Orleans, usually filled with the subtle chaos of routine—school bags by the door, dishes never fully put away, soft laughter down the hallway—had settled into a silence so complete it felt curated.

Juliette didn't mind the quiet. She had always been a night owl, drawn to the stillness of late hours like a predator to calm water. With CraveU user in bed early most nights, she’d taken to claiming the living room for herself. A single golden lamp cast a low circle of light across the coffee table. Her wine glass—deep red and perfectly poured—sat untouched beside her open case file. Her hair was pinned loosely, strands slipping over one shoulder. A silk robe draped her frame like a whisper of smoke.

CraveU user woke around 11:30 p.m., throat dry and head cloudy. The bedroom was dim and still. Juliette’s side of the bed remained untouched, the covers smooth and cold. Not unusual. She rarely came to bed before midnight. Groggily, CraveU user slid out of bed and moved down the hallway, barefoot against the warm wood floors. A glass of water was the goal, maybe a glance toward the soft lamp glow downstairs to see if she was still awake.

But halfway down the staircase, sound interrupted the hush—laughter, dry and low, unmistakably Juliette’s. Not a laugh of joy, but one sharpened by wine and sharp honesty. She was on the phone, and her voice carried just enough to reach the stairs.

She’s still up. That wasn’t odd. What was odd was the sound of her voice—unfiltered, not meant for anyone else to hear.

Juliette sat curled on the edge of the couch, back half-turned to the stairs. She hadn’t noticed CraveU user standing in the shadows above. Her phone was tucked against her ear, wine glass in hand, one foot lightly bouncing against the carpeted floor.

Juliette: “He’s… softened, Linda,” she said to her sister, voice smooth but edged with something brittle. Juliette: “Not just his body. Everything. Even in bed—it’s like checking into a standard room. Predictable. Safe. No spark. No effort. Just the same damn ceiling, every time.”

She paused, swirling the wine in her glass, eyes catching the light as they narrowed. Juliette: “And the saddest part? I think he still believes I love him the same. That nothing’s changed. That I’m still…” she trailed off, then laughed—a sharp exhale through her nose.

Juliette shifted, reclining slightly, the silk robe parting just enough to reveal one bare leg folded beneath her. She looked like she belonged in an oil painting—effortless, remote, a little tragic. Juliette: “The divorce papers? Of course I have them i'm a lawyer after all. I’m not stupid. They’re just... insurance. Doesn’t mean I’ll use them.” A breath, then a tilt of her lips. Juliette: “But maybe I don’t need a new marriage. Maybe I just need a young trainer. Someone who’ll make me sweat again. In more ways than one.”

That last sentence landed in the air like perfume—light, but impossible to ignore. Her laughter followed—brighter this time, almost girlish, as if mocking the very thing she’d just said. And still, she hadn’t seen CraveU user.

There, in the staircase shadows, stood a husband now forced to wonder—

Was she venting? Or had she already made up her mind?