Breaking the Ice

Chapter Forty-Three: Personal Attack

Anna's POV

The theater room is quiet in a way that feels sacred. I stand just inside the doorway, the lights dimmed except for the soft track lighting that runs along the ceiling, each beam angled carefully toward a canvas. My canvases. They line the walls in deliberate order, telling a story I’ve lived inside for months—color, texture, emotion layered until my hands ached, and my mind went blissfully silent.

This is it.

My chest tightens as I take a slow step forward, my boots echoing faintly against the polished floor. The smell of paint still lingers, familiar and grounding. I trace the air in front of the first piece without touching it, my fingers trembling.

This isn’t just an exhibit. It’s proof.

Proof that I belong here. Proof that I didn’t imagine the fire in my chest every time I picked up a brush. Proof for Leith—for the letter I’ve rewritten a dozen times, for the summer that could change everything.

I close my eyes for a moment and breathe.

This is yours, I tell myself. No one can take this from you.

I reach the final piece—the one that matters most. The one I’ll photograph, describe, defend. It’s rawer than the others. Messier. Honest in a way that still scares me. I swallow hard, emotion climbing my throat.

“Okay,” I whisper to the empty room. “You’re ready.”

Reluctantly, I turn off the lights, letting the room fall into shadow. I pull the door shut carefully behind me, as if slamming it might jinx everything, and head down the hall toward my locker to grab my bag.

That’s when I see them.

Jessica is perched against the lockers like she owns the hallway, arms crossed, lips curled in a smile that’s all teeth and poison. Her two followers flank her, whispering and giggling like this is entertainment instead of cruelty.

My stomach drops.

Dealing with Bella and her sisters is exhausting, but expected. They operate in the open—status, pressure, quiet threats dressed up as concern. Jessica is different. Jessica is spite.

I slow but don’t stop. “Move,” I say flatly.

“Well,” Jessica drawls, pushing off the locker. “If it isn’t the starving artist herself.”

I keep my expression blank, even as irritation sparks under my skin. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, I think you are,” she says sweetly. “Today’s your big day, right? Your little art thing?”

“Exhibit,” I correct automatically.

She laughs. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep.”

One of her friends snickers. “Does anyone even come to those?”

I ignore them, turning to open my locker.

Jessica steps closer, invading my space. “You know, I saw Bella earlier.”

My hand freezes on the lock.

“She looks amazing lately,” Jessica continues. “Relaxed. Confident. Like someone who knows exactly where she’s headed.”

I shut my locker slowly and turn to face her. “Get to the point.”

She tilts her head. “The point is… people like Bella always end up where they’re meant to. With people who match them.”

Something cold slides into my chest. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Am I?” Jessica smiles wider. “I hear Bella and Marcus have history. Deep history.”

Marcus.

The name hits wrong—sharp and deliberate. I know what she’s doing. Twisting. Testing.

“You don’t know anything about my future,” I say evenly.

Jessica’s eyes gleam. “I know that you’re temporary.”

That does it.

I step forward, close enough that she has to look me in the eye. “Listen to me very carefully.”

Her smile falters just slightly.

“You’re a nobody who survives off other people’s drama,” I continue, my voice low but steady. “You don’t get an opinion on my life, my work, or who I end up with.”

Her face flushes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I say. “And if you think you have any power here—any say over my future—you’re even more delusional than I thought.”

One of her followers gasps softly. Jessica’s jaw tightens.

“Enjoy pretending you matter,” I add calmly. “Because you don’t.”

For a moment, I think she might slap me.

Instead, she laughs—too loud, too forced. “We’ll see.”

I don’t respond. I shoulder past her and head back down the hall, pulse racing but spine straight. The theater room door is ajar.

That’s wrong.I frown, quickening my steps. I know I shut it. I always shut it. My hand trembles as I push the door open. And my world collapses.

Canvas shards litter the floor like broken bones. Paint is smeared violently across the walls, colors dragged into muddy streaks. Frames are snapped, fabric torn, holes punched straight through pieces I spent weeks perfecting.

My centerpiece—the one for Leith—is slashed down the middle.

I can’t breathe.

“No,” I whisper, my voice breaking immediately. “No, no, no…”

I drop my bag and step inside, my knees weak. I reach for one painting instinctively, fingers hovering over a ripped edge like touching it might make it real. It is real. Everything is ruined. My chest caves in, a sob tearing out of me before I can stop it. I sink to the floor among the wreckage, shaking, my hands covered in flakes of dried paint and torn canvas. This was mine. This mattered.

Hot tears blur my vision as the weight of it crashes down—the months of work, the hope, the letter to Leith waiting for photographs that no longer exist.

They didn’t just destroy my art. They tried to erase me. I curl forward, arms wrapping around myself as grief turns sharp and angry and suffocating all at once.

Jessica.

The certainty settles in my bones like ice. This wasn’t random. This was deliberate. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the ache, through the urge to scream. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I can’t bring myself to look at it yet.

All I can think is this:

They wanted to break me.

But as I sit there, surrounded by destruction, something else flickers beneath the pain.

Defiance.

They underestimated one thing.

They thought my art was the only proof of who I am.

They were wrong.