ABIGAIL.
I was going to do it.
My hands shook as I traced the chalk circle on my apartment floor, following the faded diagrams in my grandmother’s grimoire.
The book smelled like dust and secrets, its pages yellowed with age and covered in her spidery handwriting.
I’d always thought it was bullshit—witchcraft, demon summoning, all of it.
Just Grandma’s weirdness.
But I was desperate.
Six months ago, I’d had everything. A thriving career as an artist, a gallery show that sold out, critics calling me “the next big thing.”
And then Tate happened.
My ex-boyfriend, my former collaborator, the man I’d stupidly trusted with everything.
He’d stolen my work.
Presented my paintings as his own. When I tried to expose him, he’d turned it around—told everyone I was the thief, the crazy
