After Gianna Hamilton started seeking Russell Montgomery's mentorship for her work, our duplex slowly filled with her early pieces, and the two of them grew closer—anyone could see it.

Then, out of nowhere, Russell announced he wanted to sponsor Gianna's studies abroad. “She's only twenty. Insanely talented. Driven. Keeping her here would just waste her potential.”

At first, I disagreed. But then I saw Gianna standing off to the side, nervously twisting her paint-stained fingers—paint that wouldn't wash off—and she looked at me with those hopeful eyes. “Maggie, I swear I'll make the most of this. Growing up in foster care, getting into the art academy felt like a dream. I owe it all to you and Mr. Montgomery...”

For a second, I saw Russell the way he'd been that winter, picking up his fallen easel—helpless, humble, and stubborn as hell. My heart softened before I could stop it.

Eventually, I was the one introducing her to new experiences, teaching her the ropes, helping her make connections. She'd cling to my arm, tears in her eyes, promising to repay me.

Then, that fall, everything changed.

For two years, I'd been working on my piece, “Afterglow.” It had been shortlisted for a prestigious juried competition for emerging artists. The winner received a grant and a solo exhibition—exactly the break I needed. But one week before the exhibition, the organizers announced Gianna's “Sunset” as the winning entry. The composition, the brushwork, the mood—all of it was eerily close to mine.

I stared at the painting until I went cold all over, then left my studio to confront her. When I got to her building, Russell's car was parked outside.

My whole body shook as I stormed upstairs and shoved the door open.

There they were—tangled up together, barely dressed. Clothes were scattered everywhere. But my eyes went straight to the draft on the floor. The one I'd left unfinished in my studio.

I screamed and threw my bag as hard as I could. It smashed into the paintings on the wall, the trophies on the table. Russell stepped in front of Gianna, shielding her, his eyes ice-cold as he watched me fall apart.

“Magdalena, have you had enough? Do you enjoy making a scene?”

I pointed at the sketches on the floor, my voice shaking. “She plagiarized me! Russell, can't you see? That's my work!”

I lunged for Gianna, but Russell caught my wrist and held it tight.

“Magdalena, I guided that painting. You claim she copied you—where's the proof?”

I stared at him, disbelief cutting through me, and slapped him hard across the face with my free hand. “Russell Montgomery, have you lost your damn mind?”

Russell rubbed his cheek, his voice flat. “Are you happy now?”

“Gianna has come so far. She's an orphan. No background, no support, no one but herself. Can't you show a little generosity?”

Gianna clutched the sketches and caught at my sleeve. “Maggie, I... I really love Russell... I'll give up the work. Just please—let me stay by his side!”

That night, I couldn't sleep. I put every piece of evidence into a statement and sent it to every contact I had in the art world. But instead of justice, I got a demand to retract everything, followed by a defamation lawsuit from Gianna. Russell paid for her lawyers.

Months later, at a hearing in that case, he stood in front of everyone, looking straight at me, and said, word by word, “‘Sunset’ is a collaborative piece between Gianna and me. Magdalena's ‘Afterglow’ is adapted from Gianna's preliminary sketches.”

“She's the plagiarist.”

The courtroom erupted.

I sat beside my attorney, feeling like every drop of blood had been drained from my body. I wanted to stand up, to refute him, to scream that he was lying. My attorney pressed a hand to my arm and told me we would have our turn. I could barely hear her.

Only then did I realize he had already chosen whose side he was on. He was determined to bury me in the dirt.

Afterward, I locked myself in the studio, going over those sketches again and again, comparing them to Gianna's painting.

Every stroke was unmistakably mine. And yet they branded me the thief.

When Russell came to see me, it was already past midnight. He stood at the studio door, speaking like he was soothing a disobedient child.

“Magdalena, this ends now. Gianna will go abroad; I'll help restore some of your reputation.”

I lifted my head, tears streaming down my face, and shouted at him, almost hysterical: “Russell Montgomery, you know what that painting means to me.”

He was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “I know.”

“But Gianna needs this opportunity more than you do. You have me and Simon Stephens backing you. You can afford to lose. She can't.”

I can afford to lose?

I stared at him and suddenly laughed. “So what? I should just hand my painting over to her?”

“I'm asking you to let this go. One painting, Magdalena. You can make another.”

I didn't say another word. I stood up and reached for the final draft of “Afterglow” on the easel.

The dated sketches clipped behind it were the last proof I had.

Russell suddenly moved forward, reaching for the painting. Before I could react, he grabbed my wrist and pinned my hand down.

One by one, he twisted my fingers back.

The pain made my vision go dark. I couldn't even scream.

“Magdalena, after all these years, that hand means everything to you, doesn't it?”

I knelt on the ground, tears blurring my vision.

He snatched the dated sketches from behind the canvas and tore them apart. Then he carried off the original painting.

I heard him lock the door behind him. By the time I reached a phone and called for help, he was gone.

At the emergency room, I told the nurse what he had done. A report was taken. His lawyer later claimed I had injured myself during an argument; Russell denied everything, and Gianna backed his story. No charges followed then. My attorney kept the medical records, but without the dated studies, the art case became harder to prove.

“Remember this pain.”

“From now on, stay away from Gianna. And stay out of my business.”

I laughed bitterly and shrugged.

Esperanza, though, was already crying, holding my trembling right hand. “Your hand...”

The fractures healed badly, and the nerve damage left my right hand trembling and weak. Surgery and therapy helped with the pain, but I never regained the control I needed for fine brushwork.

My father spent the next few weeks calling gallery owners and former students, asking them to look at my work before they judged me. Most stopped returning his calls.

He sounded tired whenever we spoke, but he kept asking about my hand instead of himself. I thought we still had time to help each other.

Then he took his own life at home. For years, I replayed our last conversation, searching for something I should have heard.

The day I lost my father, I fainted and was taken to the hospital. That was where I learned I was pregnant.