Chapter 1

The air in the gallery was thick with the scent of champagne and expensive perfume, a glittering sea of people murmuring praise. My solo exhibition. The culmination of a decade of work, of sweat, of pouring my soul onto canvas. It was supposed to be my night.

But it wasn't. It was Liam's.

Everything was always Liam's.

I remembered the gallery fire five years ago. It was my first small showing, a shared space with other emerging artists. An electrical fault, they said. I had been trapped in the back office, smoke filling my lungs, the roar of the flames a living thing. Liam, who was just a rapidly rising tech star back then, my mentor and new lover, had broken through the police cordon, shattered a window, and pulled me out himself. He had burns on his arms and a cut over his eye.

The next day, he bought the entire building. He bought the three competing tech startups that were nipping at his heels and dismantled them. He told the press, "Nothing and no one will ever threaten what is mine again."

Everyone saw it as a grand, romantic gesture. A ruthless act of protection. I saw it too, at first. I felt cherished, special, shielded by his immense power. He rebuilt the gallery just for me, a temple of glass and white walls. My prison.

Tonight was the grand opening of that temple. Liam stood beside me, his arm a heavy, possessive weight around my waist. He was smiling, his charismatic, public smile that charmed investors and disarmed rivals.

"She's a phenomenon, isn't she?" he said to a reporter, his voice booming with pride. "I knew it the moment I saw her. A pure, untamed talent. All she needed was the right guidance."

His guidance. His control.

He squeezed my waist, a silent reminder of who I belonged to. I smiled, the practiced, hollow smile of an artist who had become a masterpiece another man claimed to have created.

Then the crowd parted.

And I saw her.

She was standing near the entrance, looking hesitant, clutching a worn portfolio. She couldn't have been more than twenty. She had the same wide, curious eyes I once had, the same wild, dark hair I'd long since tamed into a sleek bun at Liam's request. She was wearing a simple, paint-splattered dress, almost identical to the one I wore the day I first met Liam.

It was like looking at a ghost. The ghost of the girl I used to be.

Liam's eyes followed my gaze. A strange, cold smile touched his lips. It was a smile I had never seen before, a look of grim satisfaction.

"Ah, there she is," he said, his voice a low murmur just for me. He released my waist and strode toward the girl, his movements predatory and graceful.

He brought her back to me. The girl, whose name I learned was Scarlett, looked star-struck, her face flushed with awe.

"Ava Monroe," Liam announced, his hand resting on Scarlett's shoulder. "Meet Scarlett. She's an incredible, raw talent. Reminds me of someone I once knew."

He looked directly at me, a challenge in his eyes.

My heart began to pound a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that this was not a coincidence. This was a message.

Later, after most of the guests had left, the three of us stood in the main hall, surrounded by my life's work. My paintings. The only part of me that still felt like my own.

Liam circled the room, his hands clasped behind his back, looking not at me, but at Scarlett.

"An artist needs a patron, a muse needs an inspiration," he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "But a new star needs a launch. A gesture of goodwill from the old star to the new."

He stopped in front of my centerpiece, "Echoes of the Fall." It was my most personal work, a raw, chaotic canvas of color and pain that depicted my feelings after my mother's death. It was the one piece I had sworn never to sell. It was my soul.

"Ava," Liam said, his voice soft, almost gentle. It was the voice he used right before he was about to be exceptionally cruel. "I want you to give this painting to Scarlett."

The air left my lungs.

"What?" I whispered.

"It will be the perfect story," he went on, his excitement growing. "Famed artist Ava Monroe, seeing a reflection of her own brilliant beginnings, anoints her successor. You will gift her your most iconic piece. It will launch her career overnight. It will be a symbol of the beautiful artistic cycle I am cultivating."

My hands clenched into fists. "No. Liam, you can't be serious. Not this one. Anything but this one."

"Don't be selfish, Ava," he chided, his tone hardening. "Art is meant to be seen, to create impact. What greater impact than to create another you?"

Scarlett looked between us, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and hope. She wanted it. She wanted my soul to launch her career.

"I won't do it," I said, my voice shaking but firm.

Liam's face went blank. The charismatic mask fell away, revealing the cold, hard predator beneath. He walked slowly toward me, his footsteps silent on the polished floor.

"You will," he said, his voice a low threat.

He reached for the painting. I moved to block him, my body acting on pure instinct. "Don't you touch it!"

His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. With his other hand, he unhooked the painting from the wall. The heavy frame tilted. I lunged for it, a desperate cry tearing from my throat.

He shoved me.

I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the leg of a display stand. I fell hard, my head hitting the concrete floor with a sickening thud. The world swam in a haze of black spots and sharp, blinding pain.

The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Liam. He didn't even look at me. He was carefully propping the painting against the wall, then turning to Scarlett with a gentle, reassuring smile. He was placing my soul into her waiting hands.

When I woke up, the gallery was dark and empty, except for the cold, empty space on the wall where "Echoes of the Fall" used to hang. A throbbing ache pulsed at the back of my skull.

I found my phone, my hands trembling. The screen lit up with news alerts.

Forbes: "Tech Mogul Liam Hayes Unveils His New Protégé, Scarlett, with a Symbolic Gift from Art World Icon Ava Monroe."

ArtNet News: "A Passing of the Torch? Ava Monroe Gifts Masterpiece to Newcomer Scarlett in Unprecedented Move."

The article featured a photo. Scarlett, looking radiant and pure, stood holding my painting. Liam stood beside her, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. The caption quoted him: "True artistry isn't about possession. It's about legacy. Ava understands that. She and I are creating a legacy that will last forever."

My sacrifice. My pain. My humiliation. He had wrapped it up in a pretty bow and called it a legacy.

A legacy of his control. A legacy of my erasure.

The world tilted, and the darkness rushed back in.