I requested a change in my art studio and, to my dismay, ended up sharing it with Emily Young.

She smiled at me, polite and friendly, but there was a glint in her eyes that I didn’t like – one I recognized all too well.

It was the same look those who used to bully me had in their eyes.

I kept my distance.

Recently, the school announced an international painting competition with a hefty cash prize for the winners, something I was very interested in.

I had a piece ready.

Emily was asked by the teacher to collect the entries, so I handed mine over without a second thought.

That afternoon, the submissions were posted on the school’s website.

To my shock, my painting was listed, but under Emily’s name.

My head spun, and I immediately sought out the teacher in charge, only to find several teachers gathered around my painting, singing its praises.

And there, sitting before my work, was Emily.

“This is exceptional. The level of detail rivals that of some masters. How did you come up with the idea to paint a child like this?”

Emily smiled.

“My mother once told me I had an older brother, but he didn’t survive. I’ve always wondered what it would’ve been like to have him around. Would he have been the kind of brother who’d always protect me?

“I’ve never seen him, but I imagine he’d look like this, so I painted him.”

“That’s not your brother in the painting! It’s a little girl!” I shouted, furious.

All the teachers turned to me, disapproving looks on their faces.

“Which class are you in? How rude!”

I knew I was acting impulsively, but I just couldn’t hold it in.

The child in the painting was a close friend I made while I was ill.

She had leukemia, and the treatment made her lose all her hair. Her body was even frailer than most children her age.

She never cried or complained during her treatment; every day, she fought so hard to live. But because of too many disruptions from her family, her treatment failed.

She was lost forever that summer.

I had promised her I would paint an oil portrait of her. When I finally finished it and came back to show her, she had already passed away.

Emily scoffed, looking at me with contempt.

“Miss Wilson, you can’t just say whatever you want without proof. Who’s going to believe this painting is yours? I know you and Francis don’t get along, but don’t drag me into it.”

The teachers clearly believed Emily, thinking I was causing trouble for no reason. Their looks toward me grew more disapproving.

At that moment, Francis walked into the office.

Seeing the scene, he raised an eyebrow and asked what was going on.

“Your dear friend here seems to have a problem with me, Francis. If you like me, maybe sort out your female entourage before trying to pursue me!”

Francis glanced at the painting, then at me, clearly imagining something in his mind. He grabbed my wrist and spoke with a hint of apology in his voice.

“Emily, keep talking to the teachers. I’ll take care of this.”

Without another word, he dragged me outside.

His grip was so tight that it hurt, and I tried to break free but couldn’t.

I clenched my teeth, forcing back tears.

Quickly, I dialed my phone, and before he could start yelling, I shouted into the receiver, “Kaden, get to campus right now and find me in the office. If you don’t, the painting of your sister will be stolen by the time you get here.”