Chapter 1

The news broke on a Tuesday.

Olivia Reynolds was in her studio, the smell of turpentine and oil paint filling the air. Sunlight streamed through the large warehouse window, illuminating the dust motes dancing around her latest canvas. It was a good day. She felt a flicker of the old passion, the one that had been hard to find lately.

Her phone buzzed on the wooden stool beside her. A notification from a major art blog. She wiped her hands on a rag and picked it up.

The headline hit her first.

"Olivia Reynolds: A Thief in the Temple of Art?"

Her breath caught in her throat. She tapped the link. The article was long and vicious. It showed her most acclaimed piece, "Urban Echo," side-by-side with a series of paintings by a relatively unknown European artist. The compositions were undeniably similar. The article accused her of blatant, shameless plagiarism.

The comments section was already a war zone.

"Fraud."

"I knew she was too good to be true."

"Cancel her."

The words blurred. Her hands started to shake. This was impossible. She had never seen those other paintings in her life. "Urban Echo" came from a place deep inside her, from years of walking the city streets, feeling its lonely pulse.

Her first instinct was to call Ethan.

Ethan Miller. Her Ethan. The most respected art critic in New York. He would fix this. He would write a scathing rebuttal, use his immense influence to shut this down. He knew her work, he knew her soul. He had been there when she painted it.

She dialed his number. It rang once, twice, three times, then went to voicemail.

"Ethan, it's me. Something terrible has happened. Please, call me back as soon as you get this. It's about 'Urban Echo'." Her voice cracked on the last words.

She waited. An hour passed. Then two. The online storm grew stronger. More blogs picked up the story. Her social media was flooded with hate. Her world was shrinking to the size of her phone screen, each notification a new blow.

Finally, she heard his key in the door of their shared apartment.

She met him in the hallway, phone held out like a weapon. "Ethan. Did you see?"

He didn't meet her eyes. He loosened his tie, his movements slow and deliberate. "I saw."

"You have to do something," she pleaded. "You have to tell them it's not true. You know me. You know I would never..."

"Olivia." He finally looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Maybe you should just lay low for a while. Let it blow over."

A cold dread washed over her. "Let it blow over? My career is being destroyed. My name is being dragged through the mud. You're the one person who can stop this, and you're telling me to hide?"

He sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion, as if she were a burden he was tired of carrying. "What do you want me to do? It looks bad."

"It's a lie!" she screamed, the sound raw in the quiet apartment. "Why aren't you defending me? Why are you acting like this?"

He walked past her into the living room, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He took a long swallow before he spoke. "Because I can't defend you, Olivia."

"What does that mean?"

He turned, the glass in his hand. "It means I was the one who gave them the story."

The world stopped. The air left her lungs. "You... what?"

"Chloe was in trouble," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "She was the one who saw the original paintings. A stupid, youthful mistake. It would have ruined her before she even started. I couldn't let that happen."

Chloe Davis. His new protégée. Young, brilliant, ambitious. The girl he had been spending more and more time with. The girl whose name had started to feel like a stone in Olivia's stomach.

"Chloe?" Olivia whispered. "You did this... for Chloe?"

"She has a future, a real one. This would have been a minor setback for you. You're established."

"A minor setback?" Her voice rose with disbelief. "They're calling me a fraud, Ethan! They're destroying everything I've ever worked for! You sacrificed me to save her."

"Don't be so dramatic," he said, the words a slap in the face.

"Dramatic?" She laughed, a broken, hysterical sound. "My life is falling apart because of a lie you told, and you call me dramatic? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I did what I had to do," he said, his jaw tight. "I'm protecting my investment."

The cruelty of it stole her breath. She stumbled back, hitting the edge of a small table. A bottle of pills clattered to the floor, its contents spilling across the hardwood. Small white tablets. Her antidepressants.

Ethan glanced down at them, then back at her, his lip curling in disgust. "You see? This is what I'm talking about. You're always like this. A mess. You can't handle anything."

"I'm like this because I'm in pain!" she cried, gesturing wildly at the pills. "I have depression, Ethan. We've talked about this. You know I struggle."

"Or maybe you just like the attention," he scoffed. "Falling apart, making a scene. It's always a performance with you."

Her body began to tremble uncontrollably, a violent shudder that started in her core and radiated out to her fingertips. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold her fracturing body together.

"Please," she begged, her voice a raw whisper. "Tell me this is a nightmare. Tell me you didn't do this."

He just looked at her, his eyes cold. He didn't see her pain. He saw a nuisance. An obstacle.

He finished his whiskey and set the glass down with a decisive click. "I'm staying at a hotel for a few days until you can... pull yourself together."

He walked towards the door, stepping around the scattered pills as if they were nothing more than dust on the floor.

She was still shaking, unable to form the words to make him stay, to make him understand the chasm he had just opened at her feet.

He didn't look back. The door closed, and the lock turned.

She was alone.