When the call ended, my hand was shaking. Damien wanted *The Crimson Marks* as the centerpiece of the *New Voices* exhibition and its main promotional image.
Until that moment, my work had lived in a sketchbook no one saw. Now the gallery wanted to put my painting on every invitation and my real name beneath it.
During the next week, I barely left the studio. I emailed the gallery, arranged transport for the canvas, and approved the exhibition layout.
Every message addressed me as Chloe Reed, Artist. The name appeared on the layouts and transport forms too.
Then someone hammered on my apartment door.
The cheap wood shook in its frame. Julian had always knocked as though the door already belonged to him.
I opened it. Julian stood in the dingy hallway in a thousand-dollar suit, staring
