Chapter 3

The weeks leading up to the auction were a special kind of torture. Olivia was everywhere. She was on the cover of art magazines, her perfect face smiling out from under headlines that called her "the new curator of a legend's vision." She posted constantly on social media, sharing professionally shot photos of herself posing with my father's famous collection. Each post was a carefully crafted performance of the devoted daughter, the worthy inheritor.

Then she began to tease the "newly discovered" pieces. She would post a cropped corner of a canvas, a close-up of a brushstroke, with captions like, `A glimpse of my father's secret passion. A side of him no one ever knew. Can't wait to share his hidden genius with the world.`

My genius. My passion. She was using my work, my soul, as a publicity stunt. Every 'like' and 'share' her posts received felt like a small, sharp jab. It was a constant, public psychological torment, and I knew she was enjoying every second of it.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get my own career back on track. I had managed to secure a small solo show at a co-op gallery in a less fashionable part of town. It wasn't prestigious, but it was a chance to show my new work, to prove that I was still an artist in my own right. The centerpiece was a large sculpture I had spent months creating, a twisted metal form that represented all the tangled emotions I was finally beginning to understand. It was the most honest thing I had ever made.

The opening was scheduled for a Thursday night. Two days before, Olivia called me. Her voice was syrupy sweet.

"Sarah, darling, I'm so sorry. I just saw the invitation for your little show. The timing is just terrible."

"What are you talking about, Olivia?"

"Well, it's just that the pre-auction press event is that same night. The auction house insisted. All the major critics will be there. It's such a shame they'll have to miss your opening."

My blood ran cold. It wasn't a coincidence. It was a calculated move, designed to make my show completely irrelevant. She was using the weight of my father's name to crush my small moment in the sun.

"You did this on purpose," I said, my voice shaking with rage.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sarah," she said with a light laugh. "The art world doesn't revolve around you. Some of us have real careers to manage. But I do hope it goes well for you. Truly."

The line clicked dead.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I channeled all my fury into the final preparations for the show. If no critics came, so be it. I would have the show for myself, for the few friends who had stood by me, and for Mr. Sterling.

The night of the opening arrived. The gallery was small, but my friends had helped me make it look beautiful. My paintings lined the walls, and in the center of the room stood my sculpture, illuminated by a single spotlight. A few people started to trickle in, mostly other local artists and friends.

Then, my phone started buzzing with notifications. A major art blogger, someone known for their scathing reviews, had just posted a story. The headline was brutal: `Is Sarah Pearce Trading on Her Father's Name?` The article was a character assassination. It painted me as a talentless, jealous nobody trying to ride her famous family's coattails. It quoted anonymous "sources" close to the family who described me as "unstable" and "desperate for attention."

I knew instantly who those sources were. David and Olivia. They hadn't just scheduled a competing event. They had launched a preemptive strike, poisoning the well before anyone had even seen my work.

Just then, the front door of the gallery burst open. Two large men in overalls barged in.

"We're here for the pickup," the lead man grunted, holding a clipboard. "For the sculpture going to the Harrison building."

"What? There must be a mistake," I said, hurrying toward them. "This sculpture isn't going anywhere."

"Got the work order right here," he said, shoving the clipboard at me. It had my gallery's address and a description of my sculpture. Signed by a "D. Miller." David.

"This is..." I started to say, but they weren't listening. They pushed past me, heading straight for my sculpture.

"Hey! Get away from that!" I yelled, trying to block their path.

My friends and the few guests looked on, stunned into silence. One of the men shoved me aside, not hard, but enough to make me stumble backward. The other grabbed the sculpture. It was heavy, and he wasn't being careful. He lifted it awkwardly, his grip slipping.

Time seemed to slow down. I saw the sculpture tilt, saw it slide from his grasp. It fell to the concrete floor with a sickening crash of twisting metal and shattering welds.

A collective gasp went through the room. My sculpture, the piece I had poured my entire being into for months, lay on the floor in a broken, mangled heap. The room was silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing.

The two men looked down at the wreckage, then at me. "Uh... our insurance will cover that," the first one mumbled, before they both turned and practically ran out of the gallery.

I just stood there, staring at the ruins of my work. It was more than a broken sculpture. It was a message from Olivia and David. It was a physical manifestation of what they had been doing to me my entire life: taking what was mine and destroying it.

My phone rang. It was Olivia. I numbly pressed the answer button.

"Sarah? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice dripping with fake concern. "David just told me there was some dreadful mix-up with the movers he hired to help you. He feels just awful about it. But listen, the party here is amazing! The New York Times critic loves Dad's 'new' collection. You should see the buzz! It's an incredible night for the family."

She didn't mention the sculpture. She didn't mention my show. She was calling to gloat, to pour salt in the wound she had just inflicted. The buzz of her party, the praise for her stolen glory, was all that mattered. My own pain, the destruction of my art, was nothing. An afterthought. A "dreadful mix-up."

I hung up the phone without a word. The feeling of betrayal was so absolute, so profound, it left no room for tears. It was a cold, hard certainty. They would stop at nothing to keep me in the shadows. And I would stop at nothing to bring them into the light.