Chapter 3

I stood outside Parsons School of Design's New York admissions office, my hand trembling as I clutched my portfolio. The building loomed over me, once a beacon of hope, now just another barrier to overcome. I took a deep breath, feeling my father's dog tags press against my chest beneath my sweater. His voice echoed in my memory: 'Chen women don't back down.'

The receptionist looked up as I approached, her smile professional but distant. "I'm Lily Chen," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I received an acceptance to the Paris campus, but there seems to be some confusion. I'd like to speak with someone about my application."

Twenty minutes later, I sat across from Director Harmon, a thin woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a perpetual frown. She shuffled through papers with meticulous precision, not meeting my eyes.

"Miss Chen," she finally said, sliding a letter across the polished desk. "I'm afraid there's been a development regarding your application."

I took the letter, my stomach dropping as I read the words: "Anonymous submission of evidence suggests substantial plagiarism in portfolio works..."

"This is impossible," I whispered, looking up. "These are my original works. I've documented my entire creative process."

Director Harmon's expression remained impassive. "The similarity to Eliza Northwood's collection is undeniable. The committee has reviewed the evidence thoroughly."

"Northwood?" I shook my head in confusion. "I've never even seen her work. This is a mistake—"

"I'm afraid our decision is final," she interrupted, standing to signal the end of our meeting. "Your acceptance has been revoked."

I stumbled out onto the street, the rejection letter crumpled in my fist. The world blurred around me as I tried to make sense of what had happened. My art was mine—every brushstroke, every concept born from my own experiences. How could anyone claim otherwise?

The answer came to me in a flash of clarity that stopped me mid-stride: Victoria. Marcus's wife. The woman who had replaced me while I was locked away in Switzerland.

I needed proof. I needed someone who could verify the authenticity of my work.

Julian Croft. The name surfaced from my memory—a respected critic who had once praised an early piece of mine at a student exhibition. If anyone could help clear my name, it would be him.

I found him at a café in SoHo, exactly where his assistant said he would be. He sat alone at a corner table, his silver hair gleaming under the pendant lights as he scribbled in a leather-bound notebook.

"Mr. Croft," I said, approaching his table. "I'm Lily Chen. You may not remember me, but you once wrote about my work at the Hudson Gallery student showcase."

He looked up, recognition flickering briefly in his eyes before being replaced by something colder. "Miss Chen. I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Please," I persisted, sliding into the chair opposite him. "I need your help. Someone has accused me of plagiarizing Eliza Northwood's work, but it's not true. You know art—you would recognize if something was derivative."

Croft's mouth tightened. Without a word, he reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a folded newspaper, sliding it across the table.

My blood froze as I read the headline: "Chen's Flagrant Plagiarism Shocks Art Community." Below it, my name and photo, alongside side-by-side comparisons of my work and pieces I'd never seen before. The article was devastating—clinical, thorough, and utterly damning.

"You wrote this," I whispered, looking up at him.

"I report on what I see," he replied, already gathering his things. "And what I see is an artist who took shortcuts."

"But it's not true! These comparisons—they're manipulated. Someone set this up."

"Perhaps you should have considered the consequences before stealing another artist's vision." He stood, tucking his notebook under his arm. "Good day, Miss Chen."

I watched him leave, paralyzed by the realization of how methodically my life was being dismantled. First my relationship, then my career. What would be next?

The answer waited for me at my loft—a small studio I'd rented upon my return to New York. From a distance, I could see the bright orange paper taped to my door. An eviction notice, citing non-payment and violation of lease terms. I ripped it down, hands shaking as I fumbled with my keys.

Inside, I grabbed my laptop and logged into my bank account. The screen loaded to reveal a balance of zero, with a notification of accounts frozen pending litigation from Sterling Corporation for "breach of confidentiality agreement."

I sank to the floor, the room spinning around me. They were systematically erasing me—my reputation, my future, my very existence. I had hours, maybe minutes, before they took this space too.

Moving on autopilot, I grabbed my backpack and began filling it with essentials—my sketchbook, my father's medals, a change of clothes. As I stuffed my passport into a side pocket, a terrible clarity washed over me.

This wasn't just betrayal. This was war. And I was fighting for my life.