His Art, Her Agony

d, his voice low and venomous for only me to hear, while his face sho

trying to pull away. "This is insa

cameras that were now flashing incessantly. He was cementing his new narrative:

d done it. She had orchestrated this entire, grotesque theater. She had dug up my grandmother's grave, stolen her locket, and framed me fo

d from Ethan's furious face to Ava's triumphant on

were now closing in. He shoved me hard, and I stumbled backward, my heel catc

perfect villain for his story. The guards grabbed my arms, haul

e," he whispered.

, a sterile white office. Ethan followed, slamming t

said, his voice flat and cold. "You will not

d, my voice rising with pa

ody," he sneered. "I'm s

d fight, he had locked me in a closet for hours, telling me I needed a "time out" to consider my "hysteria." The same suffocating fear, the same feeling of being completely powerless, washed over me. My breath h

el small." I saw her face, not sick and dying, but as she was in my childhood, smiling and vibrant. Then the image soured, and I sa

onsciousness. The door opened, and Ava st

asked, her voice dripp

from her. "You did it," I breathed. "

story, and you, my dear, were becoming boring. I gave him what he needed. I gave him a villain."

's a shame you had to have a complete breakdown and attack

f the letter opener across her own forearm, creating a deep, bloody gash.

screamed, a piercing, terrified sound that echoed through the