I spent the next two days trying to bury myself in work. The studio door stayed shut most of the time, charcoal dust coating my fingers and the edge of the desk. I sketched until my wrist ached, layering shadows and light on the big canvas, forcing the lines to become something powerful instead of just echoes of Damien’s body over mine. The showcase was close now. I couldn’t let Sophia or any of this mess touch it. That part of my life was still mine.
But Sophia had other plans.
It started with a text from an unknown number while I was rinsing brushes in the sink. A screenshot of an old photo from the family wedding — me and Damien standing too close during the slow dance, his hand low on my back. The message underneath was short: *People should know what kind of girl you really are.*
I
