Chapter 2

The drive to the hospital was a blur of rain-slicked highways and the frantic rhythm of the windshield wipers. My aunt's words echoed in my head, a terrible loop of failure. She saw something on the news. I had been too slow, too caught up in my own shock and anger. Ethan's poison had reached her first.

I burst through the emergency room doors and found my aunt huddled on a plastic chair, her face pale and tear-streaked. She pointed down a brightly lit corridor. "Room 304. She's... she's been asking for you."

I ran. The room was cold and smelled of antiseptic. Grandma Susan was a small, frail figure lost in the vastness of the hospital bed. Wires and tubes connected her to a symphony of beeping machines. A small television mounted in the corner of the room was on, muted. A talking head on a news channel gesticulated wildly next to a picture of Ethan's exhibition. Next to it, a picture of me.

Her eyes, cloudy with age and pain, found mine. A weak, trembling hand lifted from the sheets. I rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. It was as cold as stone.

"Chloe," she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. "That man... on the TV... they said... such awful things."

"Shh, Grandma, don't listen to them," I choked out, my own tears blurring her face. "It's all lies. It's just... it's art. It's not real."

A single tear traced a path through the wrinkles on her cheek. "But your picture... my sweet girl. They made you look... ashamed." Her breath hitched, and the beeping of the heart monitor next to her bed sped up, a frantic, panicked sound.

"I'm not ashamed, Grandma. I'm right here. I'm okay," I lied, stroking her hair.

She squeezed my hand with surprising strength. "Don't... don't let them break you," she rasped, her eyes locking onto mine. "You are good. You are strong. Don't... let him..."

Her voice faded. Her eyes fluttered shut. The beeping of the monitor became a single, piercing, continuous tone.

The world went silent. Reality fractured. Nurses rushed in, pushing me out of the way. Their voices were distant, muffled, as if coming from underwater. Someone was shouting. The long, unwavering note from the machine was the only thing that felt real. My legs gave out, and the hard, linoleum floor rose up to meet me as everything went black.

When I came to, I was in a small, windowless waiting room. My aunt was holding a cup of water to my lips. "She's gone, Chloe," she said, her voice hollow.

The words didn't register at first. They were just sounds. But then the weight of them crashed down, a physical force that stole my breath. Gone. My grandmother was gone. Because of Ethan. Because of his "art."

I handled the arrangements in a daze. Signing papers, answering questions from a sad-eyed doctor, choosing a casket. My aunt was too distraught, so I moved through the tasks with a mechanical, empty precision. The world outside the hospital continued on, but mine had ended. I was alone. Utterly and completely alone.

Hours later, I finally drove back to the small apartment I had been renting since leaving Ethan. The rain had stopped. The city lights felt garish and offensive. I unlocked my door and stepped inside, dropping my keys on the small entry table.

Then I froze.

The door to the bedroom was ajar. A soft light spilled out, along with the sound of a woman's laughter. It was a light, musical sound that I didn't recognize.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I crept forward, my body rigid with a new, terrifying dread. I pushed the door open.

Ethan was there, standing by the window, looking out at the city. And he wasn't alone. A woman with long, dark hair was with him. Her arms were wrapped around his waist from behind, her head resting on his back. I recognized her instantly. Amelia Vance. A rising star in the art world, a painter known for her dark, provocative canvases. And, I now realized, Ethan's replacement for me.

They were so comfortable, so at home in my space. In the space I had created to escape him. He had brought his new life into the ruins of our old one. The grief I felt for my grandmother curdled into something hotter, something sharper.

Ethan turned, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. He showed no surprise, no shame. He simply looked at me, a cool, appraising glance.

Amelia unwrapped herself from him, a smug little smile playing on her lips. "Oh," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You're back."

I stared at Ethan, the man I had just indirectly killed my grandmother for. "What is she doing here?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

"Amelia was just comforting me," Ethan said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. "It's been a very stressful day for me, with the gallery and the media."

Stressful for him. My grandmother was dead.

"Get out," I said, the words a raw tear in the quiet room.

"Chloe, let's not be dramatic," he said, taking a step toward me.

"I said, get out!" I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat. "Both of you! Get out of my home!"

He stopped, his face hardening into a familiar mask of cold anger. He looked at me not with remorse or pity, but with annoyance. As if my grief was an inconvenience. As if my pain was interrupting his evening.

"Fine," he said, turning to Amelia. "We'll leave."

He walked past me without another word, without a single glance back. Amelia followed, pausing at the door to give me one last, triumphant look.

I stood there, shaking, listening to their footsteps fade down the hall. The silence they left behind was filled with the ghost of her laughter and the absolute certainty of his betrayal. My grandmother was dead. My home had been violated. My life was in pieces.

A new kind of resolve settled in my chest, cold and hard. He had taken everything from me. My love, my privacy, my family. There was nothing left to lose. And in that emptiness, a plan began to form. A desperate, extreme plan. If the world believed I was his tragic muse, then I would give them a tragedy they would never forget. I would not just escape him. I would erase myself from his world so completely it would be as if I had never existed at all.