Stolen Canvas

a constant reminder of the art that had become my death. My body, ravaged by a co

should have had, glowing with a live stream from a grand art gala. And

The style she' d once called "immature." Now, the art world called it "revolutionary,"

n my chest, the phone slipped fro

. The crippling cough gone. My hands smooth, strong. This wasn't my

I was healthy

uilt her career on my destruction, leaving me to die alone. The pain, the betrayal, t

n't felt in years. "You will not destroy me again, Evelyn. This t