Sorrow would have to wait. The very next day, I returned to the studio to put the final touches on my work.

If I could just submit this painting—half a month’s labor—to the competition, the substantial prize would cover Nicholas’s medical bills.

After all, a painter’s work is only truly valued once they’re gone.

“This is yours?” A snort of derision came from beside me. “Hard to believe this studio tolerates such standards.”

Lauren looked my painting up and down, her expression dripping with contempt.

Beside her, the studio owner could only nod and bow, not daring to offer a word in my defense.

“Miss Lauren, as a returnee art connoisseur, your judgment is, of course, impeccable. Elizabeth, your services are no longer required.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I heard you studied piano, Miss Lauren. How can you dismiss my work with just a glance?”

My grip tightened on the brush. The moment I saw her, I recognized her—the one who’d sent those texts. She was also the pure, flawless treasure Philip spoke of.

One of us was the new favorite; the other, the cast-off. The owner mopped his temple and turned to plead with me.

“Miss Elizabeth, have some mercy. A humble place like ours simply can’t accommodate someone of your... stature.”

So Philip was behind this. He’d invested here, too. He always did this—cutting off every escape, forcing me to crawl back and apologize.

But not this time.

“Sir, I only need a place to paint today. I’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.”

My defiance seemed to catch Lauren off guard. Then, perhaps recalling how often Philip had glanced at his phone last night, her eyes flushed with anger. She snatched up a container of paint and hurled it at my canvas.

“How dare you enter something this filthy into a competition!”

Her shrill voice pierced the air. I threw myself forward, shielding the easel.

Thick, sticky liquid drenched me instantly. The acrid smell invaded my nostrils, choking me into a fit of harsh coughs.

“Perfect. Let me wash you clean. Art isn’t for someone like you to defile.”

Bucket after bucket of paint rained down. Jeers and laughter swelled around me, threatening to pull me under. The studio, once my sanctuary, had become my courtroom.

Only when every drop of paint was gone did I get a moment to gasp for air. Pigments blurred my vision. Through the white haze, I saw Lauren lift my painting with a smile.

“No… please… I’ll leave—”

She tore the canvas, sending fragments fluttering through the air like snow.

My last shred of hope lay in ruins. I stared at the confetti on the floor, my heart turning to ash.

“Do you really think Philip loves you?”

The smile froze on Lauren’s face.

“I was by his side for twenty-three years, and he cast me aside. What makes you think your fate will be any better?”

My words must have stung. A second later, a slap cracked across my face.

“You think you and I are the same? Someone who got dirty the moment she turned eighteen? I’d be sickened to have you as my pet.”

The force sent me sprawling. My right cheek swelled instantly, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth.

“What have you done to yourself?”

A familiar voice. I looked up instinctively. Philip stood there, his brow furrowed with reproach. He walked over and gently took Lauren’s hand.

With practiced ease, he drew a custom silk handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the paint from her fingers.

Before I could speak, Lauren melted against him, her voice trembling. “Philip, I only wanted to advise Elizabeth on her painting… Then she just… went mad, throwing paint everywhere. I was so frightened, I accidentally struck her…”

Philip’s arm slipped around her waist. His gaze flickered to the vivid handprint on my cheek, something unreadable passing through his eyes. But his words plunged me into an icy abyss.

“So she was struck. She started it.”

I hadn’t expected Lauren to twist the story—but I truly hadn’t expected Philip to believe her.

“She destroyed my painting first! Philip, you have to believe—”

He took a step back, as if I were something repulsive. “It’s just a painting. So it’s ruined. What’s the big deal?”

I stood frozen, unable to breathe.

So this is what it means when love dies. Even the most basic fairness evaporates.

The old Philip would beg to be my model, insisting every one of my paintings had to carry his shadow.

But now…

Was it all for Lauren?

I should have realized. Without Philip’s permission, how could she have done this?

The boy who once saved me was long gone.

Struggling to my feet, I refused to look at either of them.

Behind me, Lauren’s sugary voice cooed, “Philip, you’re so good to me…”

He gave an absent-minded hum, but the arm around her waist dropped to his side.

Hearing it, two clear trails traced through the paint on my cheeks.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice flat. “Apologize to Lauren.”

Philip’s voice was icy, his eyes—the ones I had drawn over and over—now completely foreign.

I didn’t answer, just kept walking.

“Apologize to Lauren right now, and I might still think about taking you back.”

Maybe my retreat was too determined. This time, a trace of urgency edged into his tone.

I stopped, looked up, and met his gaze.

“Philip, I’m tired.”

For a second, he seemed startled by my red-rimmed eyes.

Then he stepped forward and grabbed my face roughly, indifferent to the paint smearing his hands.

“Since when did you grow a spine, Elizabeth?”

“So tough now, are you? Then why were you crying and screaming my name back then? And why did you wear that dress?”

An uncontrollable pain tightened in my chest.

At eighteen, Philip had wept and sworn revenge for me.

At twenty-three, he was interrogating me about a dress.

Seeing his bloodshot eyes, a deep weariness washed over me. I pulled my hand free and walked away without looking back.

“You’ll regret this, Elizabeth!”

Yes. I already did. But that dress had been his gift for my eighteenth birthday.

In the days that followed, no matter where I applied, not a single studio would take me. I knew why.

Then, out of nowhere, my mother texted me. A flyer for a high-paying job flashed on the screen.

The phone rang instantly.

“Elizabeth, it’s been days. Your brother is all I have left. If it weren’t for him, *you’d* be the one in that hospital bed!”

She’d said it before. If Dad hadn’t taken my brother that day, my brother wouldn’t be lying in a coma.

My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles ached. “I don’t want to go begging to Philip again. Just give me a little more time.”

“You’d better hurry. I don’t care if you have to beg him, drink with him, or whatever—get me that money now!”

The call cut off. I looked at the only photo on my wall, the one of me and Dad, and felt my nose sting.

The job was at the largest bar in Ashford.

The manager took one look at me and slid a contract across the table.

“Perfect! A lot of the trust-fund crowd goes for your look.”

His gaze was lecherous, sweeping over me as if I were merchandise.

Nausea churned in my stomach, but the thought of my brother kept me rooted. “It’s just delivering fruit platters, right? Nothing else?”

He nodded, offering repeated assurances. “It’s all in the contract. Nothing else.”

I signed.

He waved a hand, and a girl hurried out from the back to lead me to the dressing room.

Clad in a tight bunny outfit, I carried the platter and walked stiffly to the assigned private room.

The moment I pushed the door open, I saw Lauren seated among a group of men, watching me with smug anticipation.

The room buzzed. I kept my head down, instinctively tugging at the scant fabric. Under all those stares, I tried to make myself invisible.

“Well, if it isn’t Elizabeth Elizabeth? A renowned painter by day, a waitress by night?”

At Lauren’s taunt, my whole body flinched. My fingers on the platter turned bone-white.

“Your order is all here. Enjoy your evening.”

Head bowed, posture submissive, I tried to slip out quickly.

But no one in that room was going to let me leave so easily.