Chapter 3

The next few days were a haze of funeral arrangements and forced pleasantries with distant relatives. Ethan never called. He never reached out. It was as if I, and the grandmother he had indirectly killed, had simply ceased to exist.

The day after the funeral, I was packing the last of my grandmother' s things at her nursing home room when Ava appeared in the doorway. She was holding a bouquet of white lilies, a sympathetic look plastered on her face.

"Chloe," she said softly. "I am so, so sorry for your loss. Ethan and I, we were devastated to hear."

I stared at her, then at the flowers. "Devastated? That' s a new one for Ethan."

Ava' s smile faltered for a second. "He processes his grief through his art. You know that. The exhibition... it was his way of trying to understand the pain in your shared past."

"My past? He put my most private moments on a wall for strangers to gawk at and called it art. How dare you come here and try to justify that?" My voice was low and shaking.

Just then, Ethan walked up behind her, placing a proprietary hand on her shoulder. "Ava was just trying to be kind, Chloe. You shouldn't attack her."

"Attack her?" I laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "She' s the one who gets to be your new muse, unburdened by the wreckage you leave behind. He did the same thing to me, you know. Used me up and then found someone new when I wasn't useful anymore."

"That's not what happened," Ethan said, his voice turning hard. "Our relationship was a collaboration. 'Raw Truths' is a testament to the depth of our connection. It's beautiful, in a tragic way. You just can't see it."

His ability to twist reality was breathtaking. He had no remorse, no guilt. Only a narcissistic belief in his own genius.

A week later, I received an invitation to a charity gala hosted by Ethan's gallery. The invitation stated that a major donation would be made in my name to a grief counseling center. It was a public relations move, a transparent attempt to clean up his tarnished image. Sarah begged me not to go, but I had to. I had to see this through.

I wore a simple black dress, feeling like a ghost at the feast. The room was filled with the glittering elite of the art world. Ethan and Ava stood at the center of it all, holding court. He took the stage to announce the donation, speaking my name with a tone of solemn respect that made me want to be sick.

Then came the main event: the unveiling of a new, surprise piece by Ethan. A curtain was pulled back to reveal a sculpture. It was an abstract, mangled form of steel and broken glass. But what made the crowd gasp was the object encased within the glass: a simple, old-fashioned silver locket. My grandmother's locket. The one she was buried in.

A murmur went through the crowd. Ava stepped forward, her eyes wide with fake horror. "Oh my god," she whispered, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Chloe... did you do this? Did you give him the locket?" She turned to me, her face a perfect mask of concern and accusation. "Did you dig up your own grandmother's grave... for art?"

The accusation hung in the air, sickening and absurd. But in this world of performative shock and artistic scandal, it was just plausible enough to take root. People started staring at me, whispering.

Ethan rushed to Ava' s side, putting a protective arm around her. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a cold, performative fury. "How could you?" he hissed, his voice a low growl. "How could you be so depraved?"

He took a step toward me, his face contorted in a mask of rage. Before I could react, his hand shot out and he grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. "You're a monster," he spat, his face inches from mine. The crowd gasped. The flash of cameras started to go off. My plan was going off the rails. His violence was real, not performative. In that moment, I wasn't a player in a game of revenge. I was just prey.