Chapter 3

The interview for the Kensington Art Institute was supposed to be my triumph, the culmination of years of hard work. It was taking place via a video call, a small mercy, but my hands were still slick with sweat. I was in a small, rented room in a city hundreds of miles from home, my portfolio laid out on the desk in front of me.

"Ms. Reed," said the voice of a stern-looking woman on my screen, "your portfolio is impressive. Your technique is flawless."

A flicker of hope ignited in my chest.

"However," she continued, her expression hardening, "a serious allegation has been brought to our attention."

My blood ran cold. I knew what was coming.

"We received an anonymous tip regarding a financial scandal at your previous institution. A scandal in which you were the primary suspect."

Before I could even formulate a response, a new face popped up on the video call. Tiffany Hayes. She had somehow hacked her way into my private interview.

"I' m so sorry to interrupt," Tiffany said, her voice cloying and sweet. "I just couldn't let Lily lie to you."

The interviewer looked shocked. "Who is this? This is a private meeting."

"I' m a concerned classmate," Tiffany said smoothly, ignoring the question. She held up a sheaf of papers to her camera. "Lily claims to be from a 'modest background.' The truth is, her family is drowning in debt. This is a copy of a lien against her mother' s house. She was desperate. She embezzled the money to save her family home."

It was a lie. A complete fabrication. My mother owned her small house outright. But the document looked real. It was a forgery, but a convincing one.

"That is not true!" I burst out, my voice shaking with rage. "My mother' s house is paid for! That document is a fake!"

Tiffany just shook her head sadly, a masterclass in feigned disappointment. "Lily, stop. The more you lie, the worse it gets."

"I' m not lying!" I insisted, my desperation mounting. "The money was spent on lavish trips, designer clothes, parties! It was Mark and you! I have the bank statements saved on a hard drive to prove it!"

It was a bluff. My laptop was shattered. But I had to fight.

Tiffany laughed, a sound that was both beautiful and cruel. "A hard drive? How convenient. I' m sure you fabricated that, too. You' re talented with a paintbrush, Lily. I' m sure you' re just as talented with Photoshop." She turned her attention back to the interviewer. "She' s a pathological liar and a thief. Is that really the kind of person you want representing the Kensington Art Institute?"

The accusation hung in the air, thick and poisonous. I was being tried and convicted in a kangaroo court, with a forged document as evidence and my dreams as the penalty.

My carefully constructed composure crumbled. I felt a surge of pure, helpless fury. I wanted to reach through the screen and wipe that smug, condescending smirk off Tiffany' s face.

Suddenly, the door to my rented room burst open. I hadn' t even heard anyone approach. It was Mark. He must have followed me here, tracked me down. His face was contorted with rage.

"I knew I' d find you here!" he roared. He wasn' t looking at the screen. He was looking at me. "You think you can run away after what you did?"

He lunged for my desk, his eyes wild. He wasn't after me. He was after my portfolio. My art.

"If I can' t have my money, you can' t have your future!" he screamed.

With a sweep of his arm, he sent my portfolio-my life' s work-flying. The carefully mounted pages scattered across the floor. He stomped on them, grinding his heel into the delicate charcoal of a portrait, smearing the vibrant oils of a landscape.

Then he grabbed the bottle of ink on my desk.

"Mark, no!" I screamed, scrambling to protect my work.

But I was too late. He twisted the cap off and, with a look of pure malice, upended the bottle. Black, viscous ink poured out, cascading over my drawings, my paintings, my ticket to Kensington. It soaked into the paper, a spreading stain of black that obliterated years of my life in a matter of seconds.

I stared at the destruction, at the black blood of my art bleeding out on the floor. A sharp, tearing sound filled the room. It was the sound of my heart breaking. And then another sound, a sharp crack. He had snapped my favorite paintbrush in two.

The last thing I saw on the screen before everything went dark was the horrified face of the interviewer from Kensington. Mark, in his blind rage, had just shown them exactly who he was.

But in doing so, he had also destroyed any chance I had left.