Chapter 3

They were systematic, efficient. Two movers in gray jumpsuits carried my easel out of the studio. I watched them handle it, the wood worn smooth from a decade of my hands gripping it. They took down the paintings, one by one, wrapping them in plastic. My life's work, disappearing. Chloe directed them with a calm, detached air, pointing to which boxes went to storage and which went to the trash. My favorite coffee mug, a gift from my mother years ago, was tossed into a black garbage bag.

I just stood in the middle of the living room, a ghost in my own home. I felt stripped bare, not just of my belongings, but of my history. Every object held a memory, a piece of the story I thought we were writing together. Now, it was all just junk to be cleared away.

The front door opened and Mark walked in. He didn't look sick anymore. He looked triumphant. He walked right up to me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Moving out?" he asked, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

I didn't answer. I just stared at him, at the man who had stolen my life.

"I wanted to thank you, by the way," he went on, his voice dropping lower so Chloe couldn't hear. "That light show you did for me? It was incredible. The record label guys were blown away. My career is about to take off, all thanks to you."

He stepped closer, invading my space. "And Chloe... well, she's mine now. But you already know that, don't you? She was always mine." He poked a finger into my chest. "You were just keeping her warm for me."

Something inside me snapped. I pushed his hand away. "Get out of my face," I snarled.

He laughed and shoved me hard. "What are you going to do about it?" he taunted.

I was still weak, my body still recovering from the night before, but I swung at him. It was a clumsy, desperate punch. He dodged it easily and grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back. My knees buckled from a sharp spike of pain.

"Still feeling a little drained, are we?" he whispered in my ear. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of her."

Then, he did something I didn't expect. He let go of my arm and scraped his own forearm hard against the sharp metal corner of a large, framed painting leaning against the wall. A long, bloody scratch appeared on his skin. He sucked in a sharp breath and yelled, a theatrical cry of pain.

"Liam, stop!"

Chloe came running out of the bedroom, her eyes wide with alarm. She saw the blood on Mark's arm and my hand, still clenched into a fist.

Mark pointed at me, his face a mask of shock and pain. "He just attacked me! I was just trying to talk to him, and he went crazy!"

"Liam! What is wrong with you?" Chloe rushed to Mark's side, dabbing at the scratch with a handkerchief. She looked at me with pure disgust. "I can't believe you. You're pathetic. Resorting to violence because you can't handle the truth."

"He's lying, Chloe," I said, my voice hollow. "He did it to himself."

She wasn't listening. She was completely focused on Mark, cooing over his "wound," treating a shallow scratch like a mortal injury. To her, I was the monster. He was the victim. It was so perfectly, cruelly staged. I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. There was nothing I could say that she would ever believe.

She finally turned back to me, her eyes hard as stone. "You know what? I have the perfect job for you. A way for you to make up for this."

A cold dread filled me. I knew this wasn't going to be an apology. It was going to be a punishment.

"Mark and I are getting married. Next month," she said, a cruel smile on her face. "And you are going to be our lighting technician. You're going to set up the lights for our wedding. You'll create a beautiful, romantic glow for us. You owe us that much."

The words were designed to humiliate, to break me completely. She wanted me to stand there and use my power, the most intimate part of myself, to celebrate their union. She wanted me to watch her marry him, illuminated by my own pain.

The last bit of fight in me rose up. I looked her straight in the eye, my voice low and shaking with fury.

"No."

The word hung in the air, small but solid.

"I will not," I said, my voice growing stronger. "I am done being your tool. I am done with both of you. Find someone else to light your wedding."

Chloe' s eyes narrowed. The smile was gone, replaced by a look of cold fury. The conflict between us was no longer a secret. It was a declaration of war.