Chapter 2

The next morning, the house was filled with a sickeningly cheerful atmosphere. My mother hummed as she made a special breakfast for Chloe, who was lazing on the sofa, playing the part of a fragile convalescent. My father read the newspaper with a satisfied smirk, occasionally glancing at Chloe with paternal pride. Mark was already over, sitting next to Chloe, holding her hand. They were a perfect portrait of deceit.

I walked into the living room, and the cheerful chatter died down. They all looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance, as if my very presence was an inconvenient reminder of their treachery.

"Ava, honey, you' re up," my mother said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I made pancakes. Chloe' s favorite."

"I' m not hungry," I said, my tone flat. I turned to my father. "Dad, I need some money."

His smile vanished. "Money? For what? You' re not going to college anymore. You don' t need money."

"For the party," I reminded him calmly. "The farewell party for Chloe and Mark. I want it to be nice. A real celebration of their success."

My parents exchanged a glance. A big party would be a public declaration of their family' s triumph. It would solidify the narrative they wanted to project: that I was a loving, supportive sister, and Chloe was the deserving recipient of a great opportunity. It was good for their reputation.

"And," I added, looking directly at Mark, "I' ll need a new dress. And some other things. I want to look good for the trip to the city."

Mark' s eyes narrowed slightly, but Chloe' s lit up. The idea of me spending money to celebrate her victory appealed to her cruel nature.

"Oh, let her, Dad!" Chloe whined from the couch. "It' s the least she can do. And it' ll be so much fun to have a big party!"

My father grumbled but eventually pulled out his wallet and handed me a thick wad of cash. It was more than he had ever given me at one time in my life. In his eyes, it was a small price to pay for my silence and compliance.

"Don' t waste it on stupid things," he warned.

"I won' t," I promised. A cold smile touched my lips. "I' ll be very... strategic."

I didn' t go to the mall or the local dress shop. The first thing I did was go to a small electronics store and buy a tiny, high-quality audio recorder. The second thing I did was go to the bus station and buy a one-way ticket to a different city, for a date two weeks from now, under a different name.

Then, I went to the public library. I sat in a quiet corner and used their computer to do some research. In my past life, I had been so consumed by my art that I was naive about the world. Now, I was a fast learner. I researched the university, its specific programs, and its faculty. I looked up financial aid fraud, the legal consequences of impersonation, and the penalties for academic dishonesty.

My final stop was an old, dusty bookstore on the edge of town. There, I found what I was looking for: a collection of advanced art theory textbooks. They were the exact ones listed on the syllabus for the first-year program at the art school-my art school.

With my remaining money, I went to a high-end boutique, a place my family would never shop. I didn' t buy a dress. Instead, I bought a very expensive silk scarf. It was a unique, abstract design, something an artist would appreciate.

That evening, I made a phone call. I found the number from an old high school yearbook.

"Hello?" a familiar voice answered.

"Liam? It' s Ava Miller."

There was a pause on the other end. Liam had been in some of my advanced classes. He was quiet, brilliant, and one of the few people who had ever talked to me about my art with genuine understanding. He had left our small town right after graduation to start a tech company that, I vaguely remembered, had become incredibly successful.

"Ava? Wow. It' s been a while. How are you?"

"I' m okay," I lied smoothly. "Listen, I know this is random, but I need a favor. It' s a bit strange."

I told him I was working on a "social experiment" about trust and perception in our hometown. I told him I needed him to be a point of contact for me, someone outside the town' s web of gossip. I didn' t give him all the details, but I gave him enough to pique his interest. Liam was always fascinated by systems and human behavior.

"So you' re running a psychological operation on your own family?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Something like that," I said. "Can I count on you to be my outside verification source if I need one? I' ll explain everything later."

There was a long pause. "You always were the most interesting person in that town, Ava. Alright, I' m in. Text me the details of what you need."

I hung up, a small bit of relief washing over me. I wasn' t entirely alone in this.

That night, Mark came over for dinner again. They were all in the living room, laughing about some plan they had for the city. I walked in, deliberately draping the new, expensive silk scarf around my neck.

Chloe noticed it immediately. "Where did you get that?"

"Oh, this?" I said, touching the soft fabric. "It' s a gift."

"A gift? From who?" Mark asked, his eyes sharp with suspicion.

I smiled a secret, knowing smile. "Just an old friend. He heard I wasn' t going to art school and felt bad. He' s an entrepreneur now, very successful. He said that real talent will always find a way, even if some people try to stand in its path."

The dig was subtle, but it hit its mark. Mark' s jaw tightened.

"What friend?" he demanded.

"You don' t know him," I said dismissively. I then turned the knife. "He and I used to talk for hours about art. He was telling me just now on the phone that he' s investing in a new art gallery in the city. He wants me to come see it when I' m there for your orientation. He even said he might have a spot for me to display my work."

It was a complete fabrication, but it was plausible. And it was designed to do one thing: ignite Mark and Chloe' s paranoia.

Chloe' s face turned sour with jealousy. "You' re lying. You don' t have any successful friends."

"Don' t I?" I replied, my voice light and airy. I looked at Mark. "He also gave me some advice. He said I should keep all my original application materials, my portfolio, my acceptance letter... you know, for my records. He said those things are proof of my talent, and I should never let anyone take them from me."

Mark' s friendly fiancé facade cracked. "Ava, that' s ridiculous. You agreed to give the scholarship to Chloe. That includes all the paperwork. The school needs it for the transfer."

"Of course," I said, feigning innocence. "I' m not talking about the official transfer. I just mean my own personal copies. It' s sentimental."

But the seed of doubt was planted. I saw it in the way Mark looked at me, a new, calculating glint in his eyes. He saw me not just as a defeated girl, but as a loose end. A potential problem.

Good. Let him worry. Let them both lie awake at night wondering what I was up to. Their fear was just the appetizer. The main course of their destruction was yet to come.

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