Chapter 4

The news report was a declaration of war. It wasn't just Chloe anymore; it was the establishment, led by Mark, methodically erasing my legacy and painting me as incompetent. The online art forums, once filled with praise for my work, were now a cesspool of vitriol. "Vance is a hack." "How did she ever get a job in the first place?" "She's a disgrace to the profession."

Mark added his voice to the chorus. In a widely published interview, he expressed his "deep regret" over my "tragic decline." He said he felt responsible, that perhaps he had pushed me too hard, and that my "jealousy" of Chloe's natural talent had caused a mental breakdown. He played the part of the concerned, heartbroken mentor perfectly.

I felt trapped, a ghost being haunted by a life that was no longer mine. The lies were so big, so bold, that fighting them felt impossible. Who would believe a disgraced street artist over the celebrated "Art Whisperer" and her powerful partner?

I had to see her. I couldn't let it go. I found out she was giving a guest lecture at my old university. I slipped into the back of the crowded auditorium, pulling a hoodie low over my face. She was on stage, captivating the students with her stories.

After the lecture, I cornered her in the hallway.

"How did you know about the canvas?" I demanded, my voice low and shaking with anger.

Chloe didn't look surprised to see me. She just smiled that infuriatingly calm smile.

"I told you, Ava. The painting told me."

"Don't give me that garbage," I hissed. "That was my theory. How did you get it?"

Her smile faltered for a second. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"You're obsessed, Ava. You're seeing patterns that aren't there. You think I need your theories? I'm the one the world believes. You're just a sad story they tell."

She then raised her voice, putting on a show for the students who were starting to notice our tense conversation.

"Please, Ava, you need help. I'm worried about you. This obsession with me isn't healthy."

She looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, the perfect picture of a concerned victim. The students stared at me with a mixture of pity and contempt. I was the crazy ex-mentor, the jealous has-been. She had framed me again, this time in front of a live audience. I backed away, the weight of their judgment pressing down on me. I felt isolated, a pariah in my own world. For a moment, a sliver of doubt crept in. Was I going crazy? Was I so consumed by bitterness that I was imagining all of it?

That night, I couldn't sleep. I went back to the warehouse, to my unfinished mural. I needed to work, to quiet the noise in my head. As I worked on the intricate details of the broken pocket watch, I thought about the da Vinci case. How could she have known my exact theory? It was a conclusion I had reached alone, in the middle of the night. I hadn't told a soul.

I thought about the Degas. The spilled solvents. The chemical stain.

I thought about the 'Phantom of the Opera' score. My private notes on the iron gall ink.

I thought about the faked report on the da Vinci, claiming I had analyzed it years ago.

The pieces were all there, but they didn't connect. How was she doing it? It couldn't just be luck.

As I stared at the mural, I added a new detail: a tiny, almost invisible crack running across the watch face. A flaw. An imperfection. And then it hit me. The bruise on Chloe's arm. It was another flaw, another detail that didn't fit her perfect image. It was a clue. But to what?

The question gnawed at me. How was she getting inside my head? How was she accessing my most private thoughts and theories? It felt like she was one step ahead of me, always. It was as if she was... watching me.

An ice-cold realization washed over me. My private notes. The ones I kept in a leather-bound journal in my old studio. The ones I thought were safe. She hadn't just stolen them. She must have done something more.

I had to get back into the studio.

The next day, I found the key. A simple, forgotten key to the service entrance that I'd kept on an old keyring. That night, I slipped back into the building that had once been my second home. It was silent, a museum of my past life.

I went straight to my old office. My journal was still there, tucked away on a bookshelf. It looked untouched. But as I flipped through the pages, I felt a strange sense of unease. I ran my fingers over the paper. Something was wrong. The paper felt too new, the ink too crisp.

Then I saw it. On the page where I had detailed my theory about the da Vinci canvas, a theory I had formed after I left the studio, the handwriting was... off. It was a masterful forgery of my own script, but there was a slight hesitation in the loops of the 'g's, a pressure on the 't's that wasn't mine.

It wasn't my journal. It was a copy. A fake.

Someone had replaced my journal with a replica. But why? And more importantly, how did they know what I was going to write in it before I did? The cold dread returned, colder this time. She wasn't just stealing my past work. She was somehow stealing my present thoughts. The "artistic intuition" app on her phone... it wasn't a joke. It was a weapon. And it was pointed directly at me.