Chapter 1

The sterile white walls of the restoration studio felt like they were closing in on me. I packed my antique tools, the ones passed down from my grandfather, into a simple cardboard box. Each brush, each scalpel, felt heavy with failure.

"Ava, what the hell are you doing?"

Mark' s voice cut through the quiet. He stood in the doorway, his handsome face tight with a mixture of confusion and anger. He was my mentor, the man who taught me everything, and the man I had loved. Now, he just looked like a stranger.

"I'm quitting, Mark," I said, my voice flat. I didn't look at him.

"Quitting? You're the best restorer in the city. We have the Vermeer project next month. This is your dream."

"It was," I corrected him.

My gaze drifted to the corner of the studio, where Chloe, my intern, stood watching. She had a concerned look on her face, but her eyes held a spark of triumph. It was a look I was starting to know well.

She stepped forward, her voice full of fake sympathy.

"Ava, is this because of what happened with the Degas sculpture? It was an accident. No one blames you."

Every word she said was a lie. I looked directly at her.

"No, Chloe. I'm not quitting because of the Degas. I'm quitting because of you."

Mark stepped between us, a protective arm gesturing towards Chloe.

"That's enough, Ava. Chloe has been nothing but a brilliant student. She looks up to you. Don't take your stress out on her."

The memory of it all came rushing back, sharp and painful.

It started six months ago. Chloe arrived at the studio, a bright-eyed intern from a top art school. She was ambitious, charming, and a little too eager to please. I took her under my wing, excited to mentor a new talent. I showed her everything, my unique techniques for analyzing pigment composition, my methods for detecting microscopic stress fractures in canvas, the secrets I had spent a decade perfecting.

She was always there, watching me, her phone constantly in her hand. She claimed she was using an "artistic intuition" app, something that helped her "connect" with the artwork on a deeper level. I thought it was just a silly millennial quirk. I was a fool.

Then, she started solving cases. Complex forgeries that had baffled experts for years. A fake Monet, a brilliantly disguised Rodin sculpture. She would hold her phone up to the piece, close her eyes, and then announce a stunningly accurate insight. "The artist's brushstroke here shows hesitation," she'd say, "a forger would be too confident." The media loved it. They called her the "Art Whisperer." She became a star overnight.

I was happy for her at first, proud even. But then I noticed a pattern. Her "intuitions" were direct echoes of conversations I'd had, techniques I'd demonstrated in private just days before. She was stealing my knowledge, my very process, and packaging it as some mystical gift.

The final blow came with the Degas. A priceless bronze sculpture, "The Little Dancer," was in for a minor cleaning. I left the studio for an hour to meet with a client. When I returned, a large, ugly chemical stain marred the dancer's patina. My specialized cleaning solvents were spilled on the floor.

Chloe was the only one in the studio. She was hysterical, crying, saying she found it like that. She pointed the finger at me, suggesting I had become careless, forgetful. Mark, blinded by her rising fame and the prestige she brought to our studio, believed her. An internal investigation was launched. Rumors spread like wildfire through the art community. "Ava's losing her touch." "She's jealous of the new prodigy." "She destroyed the Degas out of spite."

My reputation, built over a lifetime of meticulous work, was destroyed in a week. They didn't fire me. They didn't have to. The shame was a heavier weight than any termination letter.

I looked at Mark, his face now a mask of disappointment.

"You really believe her, don't you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I believe the evidence, Ava," he said coldly. "And I believe in the results Chloe gets. Maybe it's time for you to take a break."

That was when I felt the first real impact of the public's anger. As I left the studio that day, a news van was parked outside. A reporter shoved a microphone in my face.

"Ms. Vance, is it true you vandalized the Degas out of professional jealousy?"

A small crowd had gathered. Someone threw a cup of coffee. It hit my chest, the hot liquid soaking my shirt, the plastic cup bouncing off my collarbone. The crowd jeered. I saw Chloe watching from the studio window, her hand on Mark's arm, a perfect picture of concern. But I saw her smile. A quick, sharp, victorious smile.

That was the moment I died. The art restorer named Ava Vance. She died right there on that sidewalk, covered in coffee and shame.

Now, standing in the studio with my box of tools, I felt nothing. Just a cold, hard resolve. I pushed past Mark, not giving him a second glance. I walked past Chloe, whose feigned sympathy had now turned into a smug smirk.

I didn't say goodbye. I just walked out the door, leaving the life I had built behind me. I didn' t know what I would do next. But I knew one thing for sure. I would not be a victim.