Lennox's POV
The champagne glass in my hand is shaking.
I tell myself it's because the air conditioning is too cold. Or because I skipped lunch. Or because these high heels are killing my feet. But deep down, I know the real reason.
I'm standing in the most important art gallery in New York City, surrounded by two hundred rich people, staring at photographs hanging on pristine white walls. My photographs. Every single one of them. The sunset over the Pacific Ocean. The old woman feeding pigeons in Central Park. The little boy catching fireflies in a jar.
I took those pictures three years ago. I remember everything about them—the camera settings, the weather, the way my fingers cramped from holding my camera for hours.
But tonight, everyone thinks my fiancé Marcus took them.
"Smile, Lennox," Marcus whispers in my ear, his hand tight on my waist. Too tight. "You're making people nervous."
I force my mouth into a smile. Marcus looks perfect in his expensive suit, his hair styled just right, his smile confident and bright. He's been talking to reporters all night, telling stories about "his" creative process, "his" inspiration, "his" vision.
My vision. My work. My heart poured onto paper.
But I keep quiet. Because three months ago, when I found out Marcus had submitted my photos to this gallery under his name, he cried. He got down on his knees in our tiny apartment and begged me to understand.
"I'm not as talented as you, Len," he said, tears running down his face. "If I don't make it as a photographer, my parents will cut me off completely. They'll disown me. Please. Just this once. After I get established, I'll tell everyone the truth. I promise."
I believed him. Because I loved him. Because he was my fiancé. Because my best friend Shelby said, "Marcus really loves you. Help him out. That's what couples do."
Now, standing in this gallery, watching him soak up praise for work he didn't do, something in my chest feels wrong. Like a piano string pulled too tight, about to snap.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The gallery owner, Mrs. Chen, taps her champagne glass with a fork. "We have time for a few questions for our brilliant artist, Marcus Chen!"
Hands shoot up. Marcus grins, pointing to a young woman in the front.
"Mr. Chen, your photograph 'Pacific Dreams' is stunning," she says. "Can you tell us about the moment you captured it?"
"Of course," Marcus says smoothly. "I woke up at 4 AM, drove six hours to the coast, and waited for that exact moment when the sun—"
"That's interesting," the woman interrupts. Her voice is sharp now. "Because I'm Sarah Mitchell from Art Truth Magazine. And I have proof that photograph was taken by someone else."
The room goes silent.
My heart stops.
Sarah pulls papers from her bag and holds them up. "These are dated digital files from three years ago. The metadata shows they were taken by Lennox Gray's camera. The same Lennox Gray standing right there."
Two hundred faces turn to look at me.
I can't breathe.
Marcus's hand drops from my waist. For one second—just one tiny second—I see panic flash across his face. Then it's gone, replaced by something worse.
Anger.
"This is ridiculous," Marcus says, his voice rising. "Sarah, I don't know what game you're playing—"
"It's not a game," Sarah fires back. "I have three years of digital evidence. Files, timestamps, even the original memory cards. Lennox Gray took these photographs. You stole them."
The room explodes with whispers. Cameras flash. Reporters shout questions.
Marcus grabs the microphone from Mrs. Chen. "Everyone, please! I need to explain something."
He turns to face the crowd, and when he speaks, his voice cracks with fake emotion. "Lennox and I... we had a difficult breakup six months ago. She didn't take it well. I tried to be kind, but she became obsessed. Calling me constantly. Showing up at my apartment. And now this—trying to sabotage my career by claiming my work is hers."
My mouth drops open. "What? Marcus, that's not—"
"I have messages," Marcus continues, pulling out his phone. "Threatening messages from Lennox. Telling me she'd ruin me if I didn't take her back."
He's lying. Every word is a lie. We never broke up. We're engaged. I'm wearing his grandmother's ring right now!
I hold up my hand, showing the ring. "Marcus, tell them the truth! We're getting married in—"
"Lennox, please stop," a familiar voice says from the stage.
I turn, and my heart shatters completely.
Shelby Park—my best friend since college, the girl I told all my secrets to, the person I trusted more than anyone—walks onto the stage. Tears stream down her face as she stands next to Marcus.
"I'm so sorry, Len," Shelby sobs. "But I can't stay quiet anymore. You need help. Professional help. Ever since your aunt got sick, you've been... unstable."
"Shelby?" My voice comes out broken. "What are you doing?"
"Marcus and I didn't want to tell people," Shelby continues, wiping fake tears. "But we've been together for eight months. We're in love. And Lennox... she's been harassing us. Stalking us. Making up stories."
The room spins.
Eight months?
Marcus and Shelby?
Together?
"You're lying," I whisper, but my voice is too quiet. No one hears me over the chaos.
Shelby wraps her arms around Marcus. He kisses her forehead. They look like the perfect couple.
And I look like the crazy ex-girlfriend.
"Security!" Mrs. Chen shouts. "Remove her!"
Two large men in black suits appear on either side of me. Hands grab my arms.
"Wait!" I scream. "Those are my photos! I can prove it! My laptop has—"
"Ma'am, you need to leave," one security guard says, pulling me toward the exit.
Cameras flash in my face. Reporters shout questions. Someone calls me "psycho." Another person yells, "Desperate much?"
I try to break free, but the guards are too strong. They drag me through the crowd, past the photographs I spent years creating, past the life I thought I had.
At the door, I catch one last glimpse of Marcus and Shelby on stage. They're holding hands, smiling, accepting congratulations.
And Marcus looks directly at me. Just for a second, his mask slips. He smiles—a cold, cruel smile that says, I win.
Then the gallery doors slam shut, and I'm standing alone on the street.
The night air is freezing. My phone buzzes with notifications—texts, emails, social media alerts. All of them terrible. Photos of me being dragged out. Headlines calling me "Obsessed Ex Destroys Former Boyfriend's Gallery Opening."
My career. My reputation. My fiancé. My best friend. My work.
Everything is gone.
I sink down onto the curb, still wearing that stupid designer dress Marcus bought me. The one he said made me look "good enough" to be seen with him.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I almost don't answer.
"Hello?"
"Is this Lennox Gray?" a woman's voice asks. Professional. Cold.
"Yes."
"This is Memorial Hospital in Willowbrook. I'm calling about your aunt, Marion Gray. She collapsed this evening. She's in critical condition."
The world tilts.
Aunt Marion. The only family I have left. The woman who raised me after my parents died. The person I abandoned when I moved to New York to chase my dreams.
"What... what happened?" I ask, my voice shaking.
"She needs emergency surgery. Within forty-eight hours. The cost is $150,000. Her insurance won't cover it. We need to know if you can—"
"I don't have that kind of money," I whisper. "I don't have any money."
"I see. Well, we'll do what we can, but without payment, we can't guarantee—"
"Wait!" I interrupt. "There must be something. Some program or—"
"Miss Gray, we have a note here that Marion listed someone as her emergency contact. A Mr. Caden Rivers? Perhaps you could contact him—"
The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the sidewalk.
Caden Rivers.
The name I haven't said out loud in ten years.
The boy I loved more than breathing.
The boy I left behind without explanation when I was seventeen years old, breaking both our hearts because I thought it would save him from a life of poverty.
The boy whose last words to me were, "If you leave, don't ever come back."
And now he's Marion's emergency contact? He's been taking care of her while I've been gone?
My phone screen cracks against the concrete, but I can still see the notifications flooding in. My professional accounts are being deleted. Photography clients are canceling contracts. My landlord is texting: "Saw the news. You have 48 hours to vacate."
Everything is falling apart.
I have no money. No job. No home. No friends. No fiancé.
Just a dying aunt in a town I swore I'd never return to.
And the only person who can help is the man I destroyed.
I pull myself up from the curb. My legs shake. My vision blurs with tears.
But I know what I have to do.
I have to go back to Willowbrook.
I have to face Caden Rivers.
I have to go home.