Chapter 2

The door to my small apartment slammed shut, the sound echoing in the sudden, deafening silence. For a moment, I just stood there, my back pressed against the wood, my entire body shaking. The polished floors and pristine white walls of the gallery felt a million miles away, replaced by the familiar scent of turpentine and the comforting clutter of my own space.

It was here, in the safety of my solitude, that the dam finally broke.

A raw, guttural sob tore from my throat. I slid down the door until I was crumpled on the floor, the anger and humiliation from the gallery twisting into a deep, gut-wrenching pain. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms.

They had planned it. All of it. The public accusation, Tiffany' s crocodile tears, the single, damning number on the screen.

I crawled over to my worktable, my gaze falling on the framed photo of my mother and father. Dad was gone, but his belief in me was the foundation of my entire life. He was an artist, too, a brilliant but unrecognized one. He' d be so proud of my exhibition. Now, this scandal would tarnish not just my future, but his memory.

I grabbed my laptop from the table. My hands trembled as I opened it, my password a blur through my tears. I had to see the transaction history for myself. I had my own saved copies of the bank statements, month by month. I would find the proof. I would clear my name.

I would destroy them.

The decision solidified in my chest, a hard, cold resolve replacing the churning despair. I wouldn' t let them win.

Just as the login page for the bank loaded, a loud, insistent pounding rattled my door.

"Lily! Open up! We know you' re in there!"

It was Mark' s voice, sharp and commanding.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. He had followed me. I scrambled to my feet, backing away from the door as the pounding grew more aggressive.

"Lily, open this door right now, or I' ll break it down!"

The lock clicked and the door swung open. My landlady. She must have let him in. Mark stormed into my apartment, his face a mask of fury. Tiffany trailed behind him, her expression a mixture of smugness and contempt.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice tight.

"What do I want?" Mark laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "I want our money back, Lily. All of it."

He advanced on me, backing me up against my worktable. I held my ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"I don' t have your money," I spat. "You know that."

"Oh, I don' t think I do," he said, his eyes scanning my small, modest apartment with a look of disgust. "But I' m sure you stashed it somewhere. Perhaps you gave it to your mother? What does a gallery assistant even make? It must be tempting to have access to so much cash."

The insult, so personal and so cruel, hit me harder than a physical blow. He was attacking my mother, a woman who worked tirelessly to support my dream, a woman who had always been kind to him.

"Don' t you dare talk about my mother," I snarled, my own anger surging.

"Why not? It all makes sense now," Tiffany chimed in, her voice dripping with venom. "The poor scholarship girl, finally gets a taste of real money and can' t help herself. It' s a classic story."

My eyes darted to my open laptop on the table. The bank' s website was still on the screen. My proof.

"You want to see where the money went?" I said, lunging for the laptop. "Let' s look right now. Let' s look at the real statements."

Before my fingers could touch the trackpad, Tiffany' s hand shot out. With a vicious shove, she sent the laptop flying off the table. It crashed to the floor with a sickening crunch of plastic and glass. The screen went black.

"No!" I cried out, dropping to my knees beside the shattered device. My proof. It was gone.

"Oops," Tiffany said with a fake gasp. "Clumsy me."

Mark grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet. His grip was painfully tight. "Enough games, Lily."

"Let go of her, Mark," Tiffany said suddenly, her tone changing. She placed a gentle hand on his arm. "This isn't helping. Let me talk to her. Alone."

Mark stared at her, his jaw tight with anger, but after a moment, he grunted and released me. "Fine. Five minutes." He stalked over to the other side of the room, turning his back to us, but I knew he was listening.

Tiffany stepped closer, her expression shifting to one of deep, sincere concern. It was another performance.

"Lily, listen to me," she whispered, her voice low and conspiratorial. "You' re in a lot of trouble. But I can help you. Mark is furious, his family is furious. They' re talking about calling the police."

She let that sink in.

"But if you just... sign a confession," she continued, "admit to taking a small amount, say, for family emergencies... I can convince Mark to be lenient. We can say you made a mistake, that you were overwhelmed. We' ll make this go away. You won' t have to go to jail."

I stared at her, dumbfounded by her audacity. She wanted me to take the fall for them.

As she spoke, her back was partially to the doorway of my small bedroom. The door was ajar, and in the sliver of space, I could see the reflection in my full-length mirror. And in that reflection, I saw Mark. He wasn' t looking at us. He had his phone to his ear, his back still turned.

I couldn' t hear what he was saying from across the room, but then Tiffany' s phone, sitting on my table, buzzed. She glanced down at it, a brief flash of annoyance on her face before she silenced it.

My heart pounded. Were they texting each other?

Then, in the mirror' s reflection, I saw Mark' s posture change. He seemed to be listening to someone on the phone. And I saw his lips move as he spoke in a low, hushed tone. I couldn' t hear the words, but I could read them, just barely, in the mirror.

"Just get her to sign it," he mouthed. "Tell her whatever you have to. She' s too emotional to think straight. She' ll believe you still love me."

The world tilted on its axis.

She' ll believe you still love me.

The words echoed in my mind, a ghostly confirmation of a secret I had buried deep inside myself. The unacknowledged tension, the years of shared glances and unspoken feelings... he knew. And he was using it. He was using what he thought was my love for him as a tool of manipulation, wielded by his girlfriend, to frame me for a crime they committed.

In that single, horrifying moment, every fond memory I had of Mark Miller shattered. The boy who taught me how to draw, the friend who defended me from bullies in elementary school, the young man I had secretly cared for... he was gone. In his place was a monster, a manipulative, entitled coward.

The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that it felt like my heart had ceased to beat. The love, or whatever I had called it, curdled into something cold and dead.

I looked at Tiffany' s face, her eyes full of fake sympathy. I looked at the reflection of Mark in the mirror, plotting my downfall.

And I felt nothing but a vast, empty coldness.

I had to get out. Not just out of the apartment, but out of this city, away from these people.

I took a deep breath, schooling my features into a mask of weary defeat. "Okay," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "You' re right. I need... I need a minute to think."

Tiffany' s eyes lit up with victory. "Of course. Take your time."

She and Mark left, confident that they had broken me. The moment the door closed, I moved. I grabbed a duffel bag, stuffing it with clothes, my sketchbook, and the small box containing my father' s old letters. I found the emergency cash I kept hidden in a book.

I paused and picked up my phone. I sent a quick text to my mom.

Mom, something has happened. I have to go away for a little while. I' m safe. I love you. I' ll explain everything soon.

It was a terrible, inadequate message, but it was all I could manage.

I walked out of my apartment, leaving the shattered laptop and the ruins of my old life behind me. I didn't look back. I went straight to the bus station and bought a one-way ticket to the farthest city I could afford. As the bus pulled away from the station, leaving the glittering lights of the city behind, I didn' t feel sad or scared.

I felt free.