Chapter 2 Shattered Heart

Marina stood at the sink, water running over her hands like a broken spell she couldn't quite undo. The faucet hissed-a long, thin whine that sounded like judgement. She wasn't washing anything anymore. Just standing there, palms slick, watching the droplets ricochet off a forgotten wineglass. Each splash was a tiny, satisfying explosion. In her mind, they were shards of Julian's inflated ego.

"How do you get publicly dumped and still look like the villain?" she muttered.

Behind her, Kate was sprawled on the floor like a cat in protest of all things vertical, the wine bottle cradled between her knees. She poured more into their chipped mugs, crimson splashing like blood into pottery.

"Easy", she said, deadpan. "You're hot. People hate that."

Marina turned off the faucet and stared at the wet outline of her hands on the granite counter. "I was a punchline. A bonus installation: 'Heartbreak in Real Time'. Performance art, curated by Julian."

Kate swirled her wine with one hand and fished a gummy bear from the floor with the other. "Screw Julian. You've got talent, cheekbones, and vengeance. That's an unbeatable combo."

Marina dried her hands on a dish towel, the fabric scratchy and thin. She leaned her elbows on the counter, looking like she might vibrate apart. "Revenge isn't productive."

"Revenge is delicious," Kate corrected. "And we're artists. Pain is raw material."

A long pause settled between them. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from the floorboards, like the building itself was trying to weigh in. Marina finally exhaled.

"I meant what I said. I'm going after Alexander."

Kate sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Still on the evil-dad path, huh?"

"It's not a path," Marina said, already walking toward the bookshelf. "It's a gallery."

"Explain", Kate said, reaching for the bottle again.

Marina pulled out a thick monograph: Sinclair: A Collector's Life. She flipped through the oversized pages until she landed on a full-page photo of Alexander Sinclair, draped in a black suit, fingers steepled in front of a Rothko that cost more than a small country.

She tapped the image. "This man controls five of the seven biggest contemporary galleries in L.A. He's an institution. He makes or breaks careers in ten minutes. Julian worships him like a god."

Kate squinted at the photo. "And you're going to... what? Become his girlfriend?"

Marina's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Become his obsession."

Kate blinked. "That is... disturbingly specific."

Marina let the book fall shut with a thud and dropped onto the couch beside her. "I know what I look like. I know how to talk art. I know how to be seen. I'm not just going to get under his skin. I'm going to carve my name into it."

Kate stared at her, then let out a low whistle. "Remind me never to piss you off."

"I mean it," Marina said.

"Oh, I believe you. You're scaring me in a really inspiring way."

Marina let her head fall back against the couch, her posture relaxed but her eyes still glassy and wired. "It's not just about Julian. It's what he made me feel. Like I should be grateful he dated me. Like I should be lucky just to be seen."

Kate's voice softened. "You were the only real artist in that room."

Marina turned her head to look at her. "That didn't matter. Julian made sure of it."

The wine mellowed the edges of the night, but the sting clung to them both like smoke. They sat in silence until Kate finally sat up straighter, her tone suddenly clinical.

"Okay. Operation Silver Fox. Let's say I'm in. How do you even get near Alexander again?"

Marina didn't miss a beat. "Through the gallery."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "The gallery?"

"He funds my program. He's donated to the department for years. There's a fundraiser next month-faculty, alumni, donors. I'll be there."

Kate considered this, sipping from her mug. "This is either the beginning of a rom-com or a psychological thriller."

Marina clinked her mug against Kate's. "Maybe both."

She stood and crossed to the easel in the corner of the room. A half-finished oil painting waited for her there-violent strokes of charcoal, deep violet, and the earliest hints of blood-red. She picked up a brush and began mixing darker shades, layering more weight into the already heavy canvas.

"I'm not going to play his game," she said, her voice low. "I'll make him play mine."

Kate watched in silence, unsure if she was witnessing the beginning of a master plan or the first scene of a self-destruction opera. But she didn't interrupt. She just watched Marina paint.

After a while, she asked, quietly, "Do you think this will work?"

Marina didn't look up. "I don't care if it works. I care if it leaves a scar."

Outside, Los Angeles murmured its usual lullaby: distant sirens, the honk of a car, someone shouting about a dog in the alley. But inside the small apartment, the air had changed. It pulsed with something fierce and unrelenting. Like a match held too long.

Kate leaned back, cradling her mug with both hands. "God help that man."