The System’s Cruel Canvas

The System's Cruel Canvas

Gavin

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The antiseptic smell wasn't new; my head always throbbed. I, Chloe Reed, once a promising artist, was now the "evil stepsister," a role forced upon me by a parasitic System. A year ago, my adoptive brother Alex, the boy I secretly loved, lay dying. The System offered a cure: become the villain, push Alex into Sarah Jenkins' s arms, and then get a new life. I said yes. How could I not? It was for Alex. The System' s predictions were chillingly accurate. Alex healed, and Sarah, a ray of manufactured sunshine, entered our lives. My existence became a calculated hell, designed to make Alex despise me. Every humiliation, every cruel word from him, was orchestrated. He looked at me with cold loathing, seeing only the monster I was forced to be. Then came the art gala. Painting, my soul' s refuge, was to be sacrificed. Alex, the boy who once said my art was magic, demanded I create something to make Sarah' s work shine by comparison. He wanted me to lose, publicly, to prove I could do something for someone else. The System buzzed with approval, promising freedom. I agreed, the word tasting like ash. The night of the gala, I unveiled "Hopeless," a canvas of chaos. Sarah presented "Hope," a field of vibrant flowers. Her victory was thunderous. Then Alex' s icy words: "You took something beautiful and made it ugly, just for attention. You are truly pathetic." His words shattered me, more than any blow. I fled into the cold night, gasping, calling the only person I could think of for a panic attack. I was utterly alone. The next morning, Alex burst into my hospital room, not worried, but furious. The System took over, lashing out with cold, mocking defiance. "Why do you care? I did what you wanted. Sarah won. Isn' t that all that matters?" His rage became chilling. He showed me a wooden bird, a gift I' d carved for him, claiming Sarah had made it. Then the real blow: Sarah needed a kidney-my kidney. "It' s you," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. You will do this. You will give Sarah your kidney, and maybe, just maybe, you will have redeemed yourself for a fraction of the pain you' ve caused." I signed the forms in a numb haze. The surgery was a violation, draining me literally and figuratively. Days later, Sarah came to my apartment, radiant, vibrant, full of life. My life. She gloated, then faked an injury, shrieking I' d pushed her. Alex appeared, a mask of primal fury. He didn' t ask. He slapped me, sending me crashing against the wall. "You monster," he snarled. "I am done with you. Stay away from us. Stay away from my family." I was empty, nothing left to take. My phone buzzed. A text from Alex. "My office. Now." It was another task, another demand. But as I sat in his office, I saw it-my mother' s journal, thought lost forever. Sarah walked in, and with a cruel smirk, she took it. Alex, with a mere hesitation, gave it to her. She "accidentally" dropped it into a coffee, ruining the last piece of my mother. As the world went black, a single, horrifying thought screamed in my mind: I cannot escape.

Introduction

The antiseptic smell wasn't new; my head always throbbed. I, Chloe Reed, once a promising artist, was now the "evil stepsister," a role forced upon me by a parasitic System.

A year ago, my adoptive brother Alex, the boy I secretly loved, lay dying. The System offered a cure: become the villain, push Alex into Sarah Jenkins' s arms, and then get a new life. I said yes. How could I not? It was for Alex.

The System' s predictions were chillingly accurate. Alex healed, and Sarah, a ray of manufactured sunshine, entered our lives. My existence became a calculated hell, designed to make Alex despise me. Every humiliation, every cruel word from him, was orchestrated. He looked at me with cold loathing, seeing only the monster I was forced to be.

Then came the art gala. Painting, my soul' s refuge, was to be sacrificed. Alex, the boy who once said my art was magic, demanded I create something to make Sarah' s work shine by comparison. He wanted me to lose, publicly, to prove I could do something for someone else.

The System buzzed with approval, promising freedom. I agreed, the word tasting like ash. The night of the gala, I unveiled "Hopeless," a canvas of chaos. Sarah presented "Hope," a field of vibrant flowers. Her victory was thunderous. Then Alex' s icy words: "You took something beautiful and made it ugly, just for attention. You are truly pathetic."

His words shattered me, more than any blow. I fled into the cold night, gasping, calling the only person I could think of for a panic attack. I was utterly alone.

The next morning, Alex burst into my hospital room, not worried, but furious. The System took over, lashing out with cold, mocking defiance. "Why do you care? I did what you wanted. Sarah won. Isn' t that all that matters?"

His rage became chilling. He showed me a wooden bird, a gift I' d carved for him, claiming Sarah had made it. Then the real blow: Sarah needed a kidney-my kidney. "It' s you," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. You will do this. You will give Sarah your kidney, and maybe, just maybe, you will have redeemed yourself for a fraction of the pain you' ve caused."

I signed the forms in a numb haze. The surgery was a violation, draining me literally and figuratively. Days later, Sarah came to my apartment, radiant, vibrant, full of life. My life. She gloated, then faked an injury, shrieking I' d pushed her. Alex appeared, a mask of primal fury. He didn' t ask. He slapped me, sending me crashing against the wall. "You monster," he snarled. "I am done with you. Stay away from us. Stay away from my family."

I was empty, nothing left to take. My phone buzzed. A text from Alex. "My office. Now." It was another task, another demand. But as I sat in his office, I saw it-my mother' s journal, thought lost forever. Sarah walked in, and with a cruel smirk, she took it. Alex, with a mere hesitation, gave it to her. She "accidentally" dropped it into a coffee, ruining the last piece of my mother. As the world went black, a single, horrifying thought screamed in my mind: I cannot escape.

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4.7

I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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