Chapter 3

The narrative they spun was that Olivia had come from money, that her success was a product of privilege and connections. It was a lie, another brushstroke in the portrait of her they were painting for the world.

The truth was, she grew up in a small, forgotten town in Ohio, the daughter of a factory worker and a part-time librarian. Her childhood was a landscape of rust and gray skies. Her only escape was a sketchbook and a set of cheap pencils. She drew everything she saw, trying to find the color hidden in the monochrome world around her. Art wasn't a hobby; it was a lifeline.

She had worked two jobs to put herself through art school in Chicago, living on ramen noodles and the sheer, desperate hope that she could make something of herself.

She met Ethan during her final year.

He was a guest lecturer, already a rising star in the art world. He walked into the lecture hall, all sharp angles and intellectual confidence, and Olivia felt a shift in her own gravity. He spoke about the emotional truth in abstract expressionism, and it was like he was speaking a language only she could understand.

After the lecture, she stayed behind, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had to talk to him. She showed him her portfolio, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold it steady.

He flipped through the pages slowly, his expression unreadable. She was sure he was going to dismiss her, to see her as just another student with more ambition than talent.

But then he stopped at a charcoal sketch of a lonely figure on a crowded subway platform. He looked at it for a long time.

"This," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "This has feeling. You have a real eye, Olivia."

Those few words were all it took. She fell in love with him in that moment. Not just with the man, but with the future he represented-a world where her art mattered, where she mattered.

She moved to New York after graduation, not for the city, but for him. She got a tiny apartment in a bad neighborhood and painted relentlessly, pouring all her hope and longing onto canvas after canvas, all of it fueled by his praise and encouragement.

He was her champion. He introduced her to gallery owners, to collectors, to other critics. He believed in her, and his belief made her believe in herself.

When she finally gathered the courage to tell him how she felt, standing outside a gallery on a rainy Chelsea evening, he had smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made his whole face light up.

"I know," he said, and then he kissed her.

The first few years were a dream. They were a team, a power couple in the making. Her star was rising, and he was right there, the brilliant critic celebrating the talented artist. They built a life together, filled their apartment with books and art and the comfortable silence of two people who understood each other. Her love for him was the foundation of her world. Everything was built on it.

Then Chloe arrived.

She was Ethan's intern at first, fresh out of Yale. She was sharp, charming, and she looked at Ethan with the same undisguised adoration that Olivia once had.

At first, Olivia tried to be her friend, to mentor her. But soon, she started to notice small things. Ethan would cancel their dinner plans to work late with Chloe. He started quoting Chloe's opinions in his articles. When Olivia had a small gallery show, Ethan was late because he had to attend a talk Chloe was giving. He apologized, but it felt hollow.

Olivia would find herself alone in their apartment more and more often. She would bring it up, gently at first.

"You seem to be spending a lot of time with Chloe."

"I'm mentoring her, Liv," he'd say, his tone dismissive. "It's part of my job. Don't be insecure."

So she buried her feelings. She told herself she was being silly, jealous. She worked harder, painted more, trying to win back the attention that had shifted so subtly, yet so completely. But the foundation of her world had a crack in it, and with every favor he did for Chloe, with every time he chose Chloe's needs over hers, the crack widened.

She hadn't realized, until now, that he was just waiting for the right moment to smash the whole thing to pieces.