Jude Sterling and I were both heralded as genius painters. From the time we were toddlers, we were rivals, constantly fighting for the top spot in every gallery and competition. That was until I walked in on a girl defacing his submission for a prestigious national contest. Instead of being angry, he laughed, kissed her, and called it a "naughty little penalty." He had fallen for a "broken" girl from the wrong side of the tracks—Chloe Miller. For her, he skipped classes, dropped out, ran away from home, and eventually prepared to give up painting altogether. Behind his back, that girl blackmailed me. She told me she’d dump him if I paid her off. I didn't want to see him rot. I paid. But Jude spent the rest of his life hating me for it. He crushed my hands—the hands that held my future—ensuring I could never paint again. He drove my parents to their graves and left me in the gutters while he climbed to the top of the art world on the back of my silence. I opened my eyes and found myself back at the peak of their toxic, whirlwind romance. This time, I won’t stop him. This time, he can have his "true love" and his ruin. I’m picking up my brush to take back my throne. 01 Two people. One studio. I stopped just outside the door. I knew exactly who was in there: Jude Sterling and Chloe Miller. In my past life, this was the day I accidentally stumbled upon their secret. Jude and I were childhood friends. We lived next door to each other, both cursed—or blessed—with extreme talent. We grew up in the same studios, went to the same exhibits, and eventually got into the same elite Art Institute on full-ride scholarships. But we were also enemies. We never conceded to one another. We fought for every blue ribbon, every "Best in Show." We were the rivals that defined each other. Everyone assumed we’d end up together. Our parents joked about a wedding being a "merger of empires." Jude never denied it; he even told his friends he was going to ask me out formally after graduation. But he broke that promise. I walked in to find him pinned against a drafting table, kissing a complete stranger. This was our private studio. Jude’s mother had built it specifically for the two of us. No one else was allowed inside. Yet there she was, Chloe, laughing as she knocked over jars of expensive pigment, turning the pristine space into a chaotic mess. Jude, usually a clinical perfectionist, didn't care. If I so much as moved a charcoal sketch an inch out of place, Jude would fly into a rage. He didn't let anyone touch his drafts. He didn't allow food in the studio. He was a man of a thousand rules and "don'ts." I used to think that was just his temperament. Now I realized he only enforced those rules on me. Even as Chloe took a brush and started doodling graffiti over his canvas—a piece he had spent months preparing for the National Youth Exhibit—Jude only feigned annoyance. He gripped her waist, kissed her hard, and whispered that it was a "penalty." That was his masterpiece. The one he’d labored over through dozens of drafts. The deadline was the next day. He had no time to start over. This was the competition of a decade. Missing it was professional suicide. We had both been so confident. We had even made plans to use the prize money to travel to Maine and paint the autumn leaves together. In my past life, I was furious. I stormed in, snatched the draft from Chloe’s hands, and screamed at her for being reckless. And Jude? His face went cold. He shoved me back and shielded her. "What’s it to you, Phoebe?" he spat. "Mind your own business." 02 That was the first time in twenty years Jude had ever used that tone with me. We ended in a bitter standoff. That day, Chloe didn't just ruin his canvas. She took my finished painting, folded it into a paper airplane, and tossed it into the industrial sink, letting the water wash the oils away. Their "paper airplane" was a romantic gesture of rebellion. My life's work was a soggy mess. I stayed up all night trying to salvage it, but the version I submitted was rushed and amateur. I was rejected. The competition I had prepared for my entire life ended in a pathetic whimper. Both Jude and I were cut in the first round. My work was sloppy; his was covered in Chloe’s doodles. Our professors and peers were in shock. They couldn't believe the two "prodigies" had failed so spectacularly. They demanded answers. I said I just had a bad day. Jude told them I had ruined his painting. He didn't want Chloe to face the faculty's wrath, so he made me the scapegoat. The rumor mill at the Institute went wild. They said I was jealous because Jude was the favorite to win, so I sabotaged him. No matter how much I explained, no one believed me. Jude’s word was law. While I was drowning in rumors and the shame of "letting down the school," Jude took Chloe on a road trip to see the maples in the North. He posted a photo of their hands intertwined against a backdrop of red leaves with the caption: Youth is meant for romance, not just rules. 03 The biggest mistake I made in my last life was trying to pull Jude out of the mud as he slowly sank. So, standing before the studio door again, I didn't hesitate. I pushed it open, walked straight to my corner, and began packing my supplies. I ignored them completely, treating them like shadows. I am not saving him this time. Jude saw me and instinctively tried to hide Chloe behind him. When he realized I wasn't even looking at them, a flash of confusion crossed his eyes. Chloe peeked from behind him, tugging at his shirt. "Jude? Is that your childhood friend?" She lowered her head, acting small and intimidated. "She’s so pretty. Why... why are you with me instead of her?" Jude snapped out of his daze, squeezed her hand, and glared at me. "Babe, don't say that. You’re ruining the mood." Looking at them—one a liar who broke a twenty-year promise, the other a girl who knew exactly what she was doing—made me want to gag. I walked toward them. Jude braced himself. "Phoebe, what are you doing?" He expected me to be jealous. He expected a scene. He expected me to try and tear them apart. I pulled the spare key to the Sterling estate out of my pocket and slammed it onto his table. "Here’s your key. I won’t be coming here to practice with you anymore. Also, I hope you two are very happy together." I turned and walked out. Jude stood there, stunned by my indifference. This time, I sent my carefully prepared draft to the exhibit early. It was a masterpiece. It won the Grand Prize. With the grant money in my pocket, I invited my real friends to go see the autumn foliage. The mountains were a sea of fire under the sunset. Meanwhile, Jude was cut in the first round. It was the scandal of the year. People noticed the graffiti on his canvas and suspected foul play. Just like before, Jude tried to pin it on me to protect Chloe. But this time, I waited until the accusations were at their peak. I returned to the Institute and played a recording on the big screen in the lounge. It showed Chloe playfully stamping paint-covered handprints on Jude’s easel while Jude laughed and called her "cute," letting her smear his work into oblivion. Silence followed the video. Then, the uproar began. 04 Jude was exposed as a liar. The faculty was livid. The master painter the Sterling family had hired to mentor him resigned on the spot. Jude’s parents were furious. They found out about his secret relationship and looked into Chloe’s background—a dropout from a community college with a reputation for being a "black widow" who used guys for their money. They demanded he break up with her. But now that the secret was out, Jude leaned into the drama. He became the "tortured artist" fighting for love. The more his parents pushed, the more he rebelled. He started skipping classes to be with her. In my past life, I did his homework. I took notes for him. I recorded lectures. I did his group projects just so he wouldn't fail out. He never thanked me. I once saw him throw my painstakingly written notes into a trash can without reading a single page. He used to drag me along on his dates with Chloe just to use me as a cover for his parents. I was the one who got yelled at by our families and teachers for "distracting" him. There was a massive apprenticeship exam coming up. The winner would become the personal protégé of a world-renowned master—an opportunity that could define a career. Everyone was grinding. Every second was worth gold. I stopped caring about his whereabouts. I kept to my schedule: studio, library, cafeteria, bed. I lived a "boring" life while they lived their "romance." Jude, meanwhile, spent his parents' money taking Chloe on cruises and buying her designer bags and watches. Without me to fix his messes, his grades tanked. He was put on academic probation. Everyone who once admired him was now disappointed. But Jude didn't care. He had his "precious love." Chloe eventually cried to him: "Your parents think I’m not good enough for you." Jude went home, had a screaming match with his father, and threatened to run away and give up painting if they didn't accept her. The exam was days away. Jude announced he was quitting art to "live for love." 05 Jude’s parents were at their wit's end. They came to me, begging me to talk sense into him. "Phoebe, you grew up with him. You have a bond. He won’t listen to us, but maybe he’ll listen to you." Mrs. Sterling, once the picture of elegance, now had grey hairs peeking through. Her makeup couldn't hide her exhaustion. She looked exactly like my mother did in my past life—aged twenty years in a few months. In the previous timeline, I had gone to Jude. I had begged him to be rational. He had pulled Chloe close, kissed her in front of me, and looked at me with disgust. "Phoebe, you're pathetic," he had said. He didn't know that Chloe had already come to me. She had demanded a "settlement" of fifty thousand dollars to leave him. And I, desperate to save Jude's career, had paid it. I did it because I respected him as a rival. I didn't want to see a genius rot. I wanted to beat him fairly on the canvas. Chloe took the money and dumped him that very night. Jude, who had never touched a drop of alcohol, got blackout drunk and trashed his apartment. We all thought the nightmare was over. But right before Chloe boarded her flight, she called Jude. She sobbed into the phone: "Phoebe gave me money to leave you. She forced me out." She didn't mention the money his parents gave her. She didn't mention it was a shakedown. She told a half-truth that made me the villain. Jude chose to believe her sob story over the recording I tried to show him. Then, her plane crashed. She died at the height of their "tragic romance." Jude spent the rest of his life mourning her and hating me. 06 The day the news of the crash hit, Jude broke into my house. His eyes were venomous. "Are you happy now, Phoebe? Is this what you wanted?" I tried to calm him down, but he shoved me. Our house had a beautiful, decorative spiral staircase. The railing was low. I went over the side. I broke an arm and both legs. Jude’s parents apologized. They paid for my bills. They visited every day. But Jude never showed up once. The apprenticeship exam came. I wasn't healed. My mother begged me to let it go. "Your arm hasn't set yet, Phoebe." But I couldn't. I had worked so hard. I ripped out my IV, put on a coat, and snuck out of the hospital. I made it to the exam hall late, disheveled and pale. The Master was watching. He looked at my messy hair and my lateness with a frown. In his world, discipline was respect. I had already failed the first impression. I sat down, picked up the brush, and realized my right hand was shaking uncontrollably. I painted through the blinding pain. There was no miracle. My work was a mess. The Master’s critique was brutal: "Shaky technique. No foundation." I tried to explain my injury, and the Master almost relented, seeing my passion. But then, a voice from the corner of the room sneered: "How can we trust her? She's the one who defaced her rival's work to win the last contest." My reputation was already ruined. The crowd agreed. I was kicked out. Jude won the top spot. He became the Master’s protégé. The Sterling family threw a gala that was the talk of the town. When I was discharged from the hospital, no one was there. My parents were away on business; my "friends" were all at Jude's party. I walked home alone in the winter cold, looking at the white lines on the road. Our lives had been parallel for twenty years. Now, they were diverging. He was going up; I was going down. He was the sun; I was the abyss. 07 Jude became a global star. He studied in Paris and Florence. His solo shows sold out in minutes. He was the golden boy of the new generation. I didn't even graduate. I was framed for a series of plagiarism scandals. The evidence was "ironclad." I was expelled. It was Jude. He used his new influence to bury me, a slow-burn revenge for Chloe. His parents moved to Europe, leaving Jude in control of the family’s domestic business. He used that power to crush my parents' startup. We weren't old money. My parents were self-made. They couldn't survive a targeted attack by a conglomerate. The company went under. My father was left with millions in debt. We sold the house. We moved into a cramped apartment in the outskirts of the city. I had to give up painting to work three jobs just to keep us fed. In the dead of night, I would sneak into the kitchen to look at my old drafts. Sometimes, I would hide in the bathroom and sketch with a cheap pencil on napkins. It was my only solace in a life of misery. 08 Then, my father died. He had been hiding a heart condition to save money on meds. One day, he just didn't wake up. My mother fell into a deep depression, which triggered a latent cancer. As I was struggling to pay for her chemo, Jude appeared. I hadn't seen him in years. He was wearing a Patek Philippe watch and a bespoke suit. He looked like a king from another world. I was holding a bag of discounted frozen bread. I had never felt more humiliated. He was wearing an old, frayed hair tie on his wrist—Chloe’s. Even amidst all his luxury, he kept that piece of trash as a memorial. He mocked my "decrepit" furniture. Then he made an offer. "I’ll give you a million dollars. On one condition." A million. It was enough to save my mother. I agreed. 09 His condition was demonic. He wanted me to personally, by my own hand, destroy my right hand. He wanted to ensure the "genius" could never paint again. He wanted to kill my soul. I stared at him. He was more vicious than I ever imagined. "Well?" he asked coldly. "Do you want the money or not?" I thought of my mother's hospital bills. I nodded. But as I hesitated to pick up the hammer, Jude lost his patience. He smashed a glass jar and drove the jagged edge deep into the back of my hand. He looked at me with pure hatred. "If it weren't for you, Chloe would be alive. "We would have been happy. "You say she only wanted money. Look at you now. Selling your soul for a check. "You were always jealous of her. You’re a monster, Phoebe." My hand was a bloody mess. I didn't make a sound. "Remember," Jude said, "you earned this." He walked out. He never sent the money. My mother tried to go to his office to demand it, but the security guards threw her out. The stress killed her within a week. 10 My hand never recovered. It remained weak, scarred, and useless. I sold my childhood trophies to pay for my mother's funeral. She died on a day she had spent her last strength buying groceries to make me a "celebratory" dinner. I came home to find her cold, with a table full of food she’d never eat. I eventually died in a fire on the anniversary of Chloe’s death. I suspect Jude had something to do with it. In my final moments, I regretted everything. I regretted saving him from himself. I regretted letting him steal my glory.
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