Chapter 2

The silence that followed the click of the lock was louder than her screams had been.

Olivia stood frozen in the middle of the living room for a long time, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a siren in the city below. Then her legs gave out. She sank to the floor, her body folding in on itself. She didn't cry. She was beyond tears. A hollow, aching emptiness filled her chest where her heart used to be.

She crawled on her hands and knees, picking up the small white pills one by one. Her hands were still trembling, making the simple task difficult. Each pill was a tiny monument to her failure. A failure to be happy, a failure to be strong, a failure to be enough for Ethan.

He had called her dramatic. A performance.

She laughed, a dry, rasping sound. She thought about the nights she'd spent awake, her mind a relentless storm of self-hatred, while he slept peacefully beside her. She thought about the effort it took some mornings just to get out of bed, to put on a smile for him, for the world. He had seen none of it. Or maybe he had seen it and simply chosen not to care.

She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over the social media icon. It was a form of self-torture, but she couldn't stop herself.

The firestorm had intensified. #OliviaReynoldsIsAFraud was trending. Her face was everywhere, juxtaposed with the work she had allegedly stolen. People who had once praised her were now leading the charge against her.

"I always knew her work felt derivative."

"Good riddance. Another art world phony exposed."

"She should be in jail for this."

Each comment was a fresh cut. The words of strangers, amplified by the internet, became a chorus of condemnation inside her head. They were sharp, pointed, and they went deep.

Then she saw a new post. It was a link to an interview with Chloe Davis.

The thumbnail showed Chloe looking sad and vulnerable, a single tear tracing a path down her perfect cheek. The headline read: "Chloe Davis on Plagiarism Scandal: 'Art Should Be About Truth'."

Olivia's finger shook as she pressed play.

"It's just... heartbreaking," Chloe said, her voice soft and trembling. "Olivia was always an inspiration to me. To think that... well, I don't want to believe it. But the evidence is hard to ignore."

The interviewer asked if she felt betrayed.

"I don't feel betrayed," Chloe answered, a masterclass in false magnanimity. "I just feel sad. Sad for her, and sad for the art community. We have to be able to trust each other. We have to protect the integrity of our work."

She was an artist. A victim. The public lapped it up. The comments below the video were a flood of sympathy for Chloe and renewed vitriol for Olivia.

"What a graceful young woman."

"Chloe is the real artist here. Olivia tried to crush her."

"Stay strong, Chloe! We believe in you!"

Olivia threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp crack and slid to the floor, the screen dark.

It was a perfectly executed assassination. Ethan had provided the weapon, and Chloe had delivered the killing blow, all while pretending to be an innocent bystander. They had not just ruined her career; they had stolen her narrative, recasting her as the villain in her own life story.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She stumbled to the bathroom, her stomach heaving, but there was nothing to throw up. She just dry-heaved over the toilet, her body convulsing with the force of the betrayal.

She caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that felt ancient and bottomless. The woman staring back at her was a stranger. A fraud. A dramatic, hysterical mess.

That's what Ethan saw.

And for the first time, looking at her own reflection, she started to believe him.