Chapter 1

"We need someone trustworthy, someone who isn' t just going to blow the money on parties."

The voice belonged to Tiffany Hayes, her manicured nails tapping on the polished oak table of the student lounge. Her eyes scanned the room, filled with the sons and daughters of the city' s elite, before landing on me.

I stayed quiet, hoping to blend into the expensive wallpaper.

"Lily," she said, my name sounding like a sweet poison on her tongue. "You should do it."

All heads turned. I felt a familiar heat creep up my neck. I was Lily Reed, the scholarship student. The one who got into this elite art academy on talent, not tuition.

My childhood friend, Mark Miller, leaned back in his leather armchair. He was handsome, talented, and knew it. He was also the reason I was friends-or at least, friendly-with this crowd.

"It' s a great idea," Mark said, his voice smooth and casual. He didn' t look at me, but I knew he was talking to me. "Her mom works in a gallery, right? She probably knows how to handle money."

He said it like a compliment, but it wasn' t. It was a reminder. My mother wasn' t an artist or a collector, she was a gallery assistant. She hung paintings for people like them. The comment was designed to put me in my place, to remind everyone that I was from a different world.

"I... I don' t think I' m the right person," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I' m busy with my own projects."

"Oh, come on, Lily," Mark pushed, finally turning his gaze on me. It was intense, a look we' d shared a thousand times since we were kids, but now it felt different, heavy with expectation. "It' s not that much work. Just keeping track of expenses for supplies, the graduation exhibition... It' s for the good of the class."

The others murmured their agreement. They didn' t want the responsibility. They just wanted to paint and enjoy their trust funds. I was the responsible one, the diligent one. The one they could trust to do the work.

I looked at Mark, hoping for an out, but his expression was unyielding. He was pressuring me, using our history as a weapon. I felt trapped.

"Fine," I said, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. "I' ll do it."

A small, triumphant smile touched Tiffany' s lips. Mark just nodded, as if the outcome was never in doubt. He had gotten what he wanted.

And just like that, I became the manager of the class art fund, a pool of over two million dollars contributed by their wealthy parents.

Three years passed. The responsibility was a constant, low-level stress, but I managed it. I kept meticulous records, approved legitimate expenses, and made sure every receipt was filed. I poured myself into my art, my final graduation project a series of portraits that I hoped would be my ticket to the Kensington Art Institute, my dream school.

The fund was a background noise to the real work, the real passion. The account balance dwindled as we bought canvases, paints, and rented equipment for our final show, but it was all accounted for. Everything was normal.

Until the day of the graduation exhibition.

The gallery was buzzing. Laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses filled the air. My portraits were hung in a prime location, and I felt a surge of pride. For a moment, I forgot about the social gap, the condescending remarks, the weight of being the outsider. Tonight, we were all just artists.

Then Mark Miller stepped onto the small stage at the center of the room, a microphone in his hand.

"Thank you all for coming," he began, his voice echoing through the large space. "This is a proud moment for all of us. But before we continue celebrating, there' s a serious matter we need to address."

A hush fell over the crowd. I felt a knot of dread form in my stomach.

Mark' s eyes found me across the room. They were cold, hard, and full of accusation.

"It has come to my attention," he said slowly, each word a hammer blow, "that our class art fund has been mismanaged. In fact, a significant amount of money is missing."

He paused, letting the shock ripple through the gallery.

"How much?" someone shouted.

Mark looked directly at me. "One point eight million dollars."

A collective gasp went through the room. People started whispering, their eyes darting between Mark and me. My dream night was turning into a nightmare.

"And the person responsible for that fund," Mark continued, his voice laced with false regret, "is Lily Reed."

Every eye was on me. I felt them like a physical weight, crushing me. I could see the judgment, the suspicion, the confirmation of what they' d always thought: the poor girl couldn' t be trusted.

My heart pounded against my ribs. My face was on fire. Humiliation washed over me, so total and so public that I could barely breathe.

"That' s not true," I said, my voice shaking but loud enough to be heard in the sudden silence.

Mark gave a small, sad shake of his head. "Lily, we all trusted you. I trusted you."

"I have records of everything," I insisted, taking a step forward. "Every single dollar is accounted for."

"Is it?" Tiffany' s sharp voice cut through the air. She was standing beside Mark now, her arm linked through his, a picture of supportive concern. "Because the numbers don' t add up, Lily. We' ve seen the statements."

"Then let' s look at them," I challenged, my voice growing stronger with anger. This was a lie. A set-up. And I wouldn' t let them destroy me. "Let' s look at them right now. Project the account summary on the screen."

Mark exchanged a flicker of a look with Tiffany. He hadn' t expected me to fight back so publicly.

"Fine," he sneered. "Let everyone see what you' ve done."

He nodded to a technician, who pulled up the art fund' s bank account on the large projector screen behind the stage. The crowd murmured, craning their necks to see.

And then I saw it. My blood ran cold.

The main page loaded, and the balance was displayed in big, bold numbers.

Remaining Balance: $1,250.34.

A wave of shock and outrage swept through the room. It was far less than anyone expected, even with the exhibition costs.

"Where is the rest of it, Lily?" Mark demanded, his voice booming. "Where is the one point eight million dollars? Did you think we wouldn' t notice?"

The screen showed the balance, but not the transaction history. They were showing the effect, but hiding the cause.

"Show the detailed transaction log," I demanded, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury. "Show every withdrawal."

Mark was about to speak when Tiffany stepped forward, her eyes glistening with tears. She looked at me with such pity that it made my skin crawl.

"Lily, please," she said, her voice breaking. "Don' t make this any harder on yourself. We were friends. Just tell us what you did with the money. Maybe we can help you."

Her words were a performance for the crowd, painting me as a cornered criminal and her as a heartbroken friend. She was trying to shut down my demand to see the details, to redirect the narrative.

She looked at Mark, her eyes pleading. "Mark, maybe we should handle this privately. This is so humiliating for her."

The betrayal was so blatant, so cruel, that I felt a profound sense of shock. This wasn't just an accusation; it was a carefully staged execution of my reputation.

I looked from Tiffany' s fake tears to Mark' s cold, unforgiving face. He was my childhood friend. We grew up together, sketched in the same notebooks, shared secrets under the old oak tree in his backyard.

And he was destroying me.

I couldn't stay here. I couldn't breathe the same air as these people.

Without another word, I turned my back on the stage, on my paintings, on the shocked and accusing faces of my classmates. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring their whispers and stares.

I walked out of the gallery and into the cold night air, the sound of my dreams shattering behind me.