When I finally came to on the studio floor, the carnage surrounding me and the rhythmic throbbing in my body told me everything I needed to know: last night wasn’t a fever dream. It was a massacre. I called my father. When he picked up, my voice was a haunting, hollow thing—shatterproof and terrifyingly calm. "Dad," I said. "They broke your daughter." The night before the National Fine Arts Competition, the man I had loved for five years, Parker Prescott, told me he needed a live model for his final piece. He’d looked at me with that signature warmth, the kind that usually felt like home, and asked me to strip. I let my guard down. I drank the glass of water he handed me, and then the world began to blur at the edges. I remember the echoes of laughter. Harsh, masculine voices. They were commenting on my body, their words slick with a grease that made me want to claw my skin off. Then, a familiar voice drifted from above. Parker’s voice, breezy and dismissive. "Don't call her that. She’s not really my 'girlfriend.' She's just... available." His childhood friend, Tinsley Price, let out a high-pitched, melodic giggle. "She’s a utility, Parker. Her only value is helping me win this competition. Let's be honest." Through the hazy scratching of charcoal on canvas, Tinsley sounded triumphant. "This was brilliant, Parker. Tomorrow’s trophy is already mine." They moved me. They posed my limp, unconscious body in ways that were designed to strip me of every ounce of humanity. Just before the darkness took me completely, I heard Parker’s final instruction to the others in the room: "Don't rush it. Make sure Tinsley sees the movement. She needs the anatomical detail." In that moment, the girl who loved Parker Prescott died. I wasn't just betrayed; I was a prop in their sick game of ego and ambition. The cold reality acted like smelling salts. I dragged myself up. I was going to burn their world down. … I had just hung up with my father when footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the half-open studio door. Parker and Tinsley. They were walking side-by-side, their conversation bleeding through the crack in the door with a casual cruelty that made my stomach turn. "Parker, honestly, how many guys showed up last night? I was so into the zone, I lost count," Tinsley asked, her voice dripping with a perverse kind of curiosity. Parker let out a low, nonchalant chuckle, the kind he used to save for jokes over Sunday brunch. "Six or seven, I think. I didn't exactly take attendance." My fingers dug into the paint-stained floorboards. My nails caught on a splinter, drawing a thin line of blood, but I felt nothing. Six or seven. Those three words were a rusted saw, slowly hacking through my nervous system. "One of them was a bit of a prick, though," Parker added, his tone teasing. "He wouldn't leave until he’d taken a dozen photos and some video. Said he wanted a souvenir." Tinsley gasped, though it sounded more like a thrill than a shock. "My god. And you just let him?" Parker gave a dark, throaty laugh. "I didn't let him do it for free. I charged him ninety-nine cents on Venmo." The blood in my veins turned to ice. Ninety-nine cents. My sanctity, my dignity, five years of shared secrets and whispered promises—in the eyes of the man I loved, I was worth less than a song on iTunes. Parker’s voice drifted in again, light as a feather: "By now, that video is probably circulating through the entire frat row. She’s a viral sensation." Right on cue, my phone began to vibrate violently against the floor. Notification after notification. A relentless, demonic hum. Horrific messages from unknown numbers, screenshots of my own face in states of vulnerability I couldn't bear to look at. Tears hit the floorboards, silent and heavy. Five years ago, we were in the university library when a creep tried to take a photo up my skirt. Parker had turned into a literal lion. He’d smashed the guy's phone and held me while I shook, whispering into my hair, "Jade, I’ve got you. No one gets to look at you like that. No one." And now, he was the one who had peeled me like fruit and offered me to the world. Suddenly, a loud bang shattered the silence. The studio door was kicked open. A wave of students flooded in, a sea of glowing phone screens held aloft like torches. The camera flashes were blinding, rhythmic stabs of light. "Holy shit, it is Jade Lancaster!" "Those photos are real! Damn, Jade, you acted like such a saint on campus. Who knew you were this much of a slut behind closed doors?" I scrambled for a piece of discarded drop cloth, desperately trying to shroud my broken body. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. The crowd parted. Parker walked in, Tinsley clinging to his arm. He looked down at me, clapping his hands slowly to quiet the mob. "Relax, everyone. This is just our new life model. She’s here for the sake of art." "Take your photos, do your sketches," he said, his eyes empty of any warmth I recognized. "There’s enough of her to go around today." I looked up at him, my eyes burning a raw, jagged red. My voice came out as a broken rasp. "Parker... why? Why would you do this to me?" He glanced at me as if I were a stain he’d forgotten to bleach. "Tinsley said you had the best lines for her piece. What’s the big deal? Art requires sacrifice, Jade. You should be honored to be part of a masterpiece." Slap. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent studio. My palm stung, my whole body vibrating with a rage so pure it felt like electricity. "You’re a monster, Parker. A goddamn animal." The room went dead still. Parker’s head stayed turned for a second. He licked the inside of his cheek where his teeth had cut his skin, and when he looked back at me, his expression was murderous. "Playing the victim now?" He grabbed my jaw, his grip so tight I heard the bone groan. "This was for Tinsley. It was for her career. You think anyone is ever going to want your used-up body after today anyway?" He leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper intended only for me. "I knew about that night in the alley years ago, Jade. You were already 'ruined' by those thugs back then. Why do you care if a few more people see the goods now?" I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I froze. That night in the alley... the darkest nightmare of my life. Parker was the one who had pulled me out of the wreckage. He told me it didn't matter. He told me he didn't care about my past, that I was his "Golden Girl," his most precious treasure. He hadn't forgotten. He hadn't forgiven it. He had just tucked that blade away, waiting for the perfect moment to twist it into my heart. The crowd erupted into whispers. "Wait, she was a victim of a gang thing before?" "Explains why she’s so comfortable being the campus plaything now. Once a slut, always a slut." The insults hit me like physical blows. I was drowning. "No... that’s not... it wasn't like that..." I opened my mouth to tell them I’d been drugged, but Tinsley stepped forward, her voice like honeyed poison. "Alright, Parker, let’s not waste time." She smirked at me, her eyes dancing with malice. "Everyone, get your easels ready. This model only cost us ninety-nine cents, so let's make sure we get our money's worth." A roar of laughter followed. A guy from the back of the room stepped forward, licking his lips. "If it's for art, we need to make sure we're seeing the real thing, right? Maybe she's wearing a bodysuit. I should probably do a physical check." He reached out, his hand diving toward the cloth I was clutching. I screamed, shrinking back. Just as his fingers grazed me, Parker’s hand shot out, catching the guy's wrist. Parker frowned. "Stick to the brushes, man. No touching the display." The student grumbled but backed off, his eyes still devouring me. I couldn't take it. I turned, trying to bolt for the door, but Tinsley caught a handful of my hair. She yanked me back with a force that nearly tore my scalp. "Jade, honey," she whispered in my ear, "you’ve been paid. You have to perform." She held up her phone, showing the $0.99 transaction Parker had sent to me. Then, her voice dropped to a hiss. "You really thought you could compete with me for that scholarship? This is what happens to girls who get in my way." She grabbed two lengths of industrial rope from an easel and lashed my wrists to the metal rack in the center of the room. I was displayed. Exposed. A specimen. I looked through the crowd, searching for Parker. I begged him with my eyes, my tears a torrential downpour. He just turned his back on me and started sharpening Tinsley’s pencils. For three hours, I was a ghost. I endured a thousand leering eyes and a thousand filthy critiques. When it was finally over and the room emptied, I collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. I threw on some discarded clothes and walked back to my dorm like a zombie. The first thing I did was take the PEP (Post-Exposure Prophylaxis) pills I had hidden in my drawer, swallowing them dry with the salt of my own tears. My roommate walked in, immediately covering her nose. "Ugh, you smell like sex and cheap gin. Gross." She pulled out her phone and started recording. "I’m posting this on the campus board. 'The Fall of Saint Jade.' Everyone needs to see how dirty you really are." I ignored her. I had one singular focus. Today was the submission deadline. If my painting won, I’d get the full international scholarship. I could leave. I could escape Parker and this hellhole. But when I stumbled into the storage locker where my masterpiece was kept... my heart stopped. Three months of my soul. A painting my professor had called "transcendent." It was gone. In its place was a canvas drenched in black tar-like paint. It had been shredded with a knife, and across the ruins, someone had scrawled the word "WHORE" in thick, crimson acrylic. I broke. I fell to my knees and wailed. Only two people had the key to this climate-controlled locker. Me. And Parker. With shaking hands, I dialed his number. He picked up after a dozen rings, his voice heavy with boredom. "What now?" "You destroyed my painting, didn't you?" I screamed, the sound tearing my throat. Parker let out a soft, mocking huff. "Yeah. I did." "Consider it a lesson. You weren't a very 'good girl' last night. You moved too much, and Tinsley had to fix her lines so many times her wrist started aching. This is your punishment. Forget the scholarship, Jade. Try again next year." He hung up. I stared at the dead screen, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. Last year, when I stayed up all night painting for a mid-term, my wrist had flared up with tendonitis. Parker had stayed awake with me, applying warm compresses and massaging my hand, telling me my hands were "made for creating miracles" and that he’d never let anything hurt them. Now, he’d destroyed my future because Tinsley’s wrist was "sore." The last thread of my sanity snapped. I stood up and ran toward the main gallery hall like a hunted animal. The hall was packed. Tinsley was surrounded by a sycophantic circle of admirers. On the main easel sat the piece she’d finished last night—a haunting, hyper-realistic painting of my own violation. "Tinsley, the lighting! The raw emotion! This is it," someone gushed. "The gold medal is yours." Tinsley touched her throat, feigning modesty. "Honestly, it was all about the model. She was... very vocal. Her screams really helped me find the right aesthetic." The crowd chuckled knowingly. "Tinsley! You bitch!" I charged through the crowd like a wounded beast. I tackled her, my fingers seeking her throat. She shrieked, her heels skidding on the marble, and we went down hard. "My leg! Parker!" she wailed. Before I could land a second blow, a massive force threw me backward. Parker was there, his face a mask of rage. He backhanded me so hard my vision went white and blood bloomed in my mouth. He gathered Tinsley into his arms, looking at me with the kind of coldness you reserve for a rabid dog. "Apologize to her. Now," he commanded. I spat blood at his shoes. "I’d rather die. You ruined my life! You ruined my art!" "No apology?" Parker’s eyes turned predatory. "Fine. You love art so much? You think your 'talent' makes you special?" He stepped toward me, his shadow swallowing me whole. "Let's see how you paint with a broken hand." He looked at two of his frat brothers standing nearby. "Break it." They didn't hesitate. They grabbed a heavy, solid oak easel. They pinned me to the floor, my right arm stretched out against the cold stone. CRACK. The sound of my bones splintering was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. "AAAAAHHH!" The scream that left my lungs didn't sound human. The pain was a white-hot iron searing through my brain. I writhed on the floor, soaked in a cold, agonizing sweat. Parker watched me with total indifference. I bit my lip until it bled, using my left hand to fumbled for my phone in my pocket. "Parker... this is a crime. I’m calling the police..." My thumb hovered over the digits. Parker lunged, snatched the phone, and shattered it against the wall. "You don't get it, do you, Jade?" He sneered. "You fucked up. You attacked Tinsley. Now you want to play the law card?" He grabbed the collar of my shirt. Rrip. He tore the fabric down the middle, exposing me once again to the room full of spectators. He pulled out his own phone and took several high-resolution photos of my battered, exposed body. "Still want to act tough?" He shook the phone. "I’ll sell these to the highest bidder for ninety-nine cents. Given your performance last night, I’m sure there’s a long line of buyers." I closed my eyes, the tears falling like broken glass. I had nothing left. No fight. No hope. Five years ago, in that alley, Parker had taken a knife for me. He’d bled for me and told me I was safe. And now, he was the one delivering the killing blow. Tinsley stepped forward then, clutching a small, greyish-white ceramic urn. She leaned against Parker’s shoulder, her voice saccharine. "Parker, it’s okay if she won't apologize. I found something better for my final touch. I read in a journal that using human bone ash in pigment creates the most exquisite, haunting shades of white." She rattled the urn. My heart stopped. My blood felt like it was flowing backward. I knew that pattern. I knew that urn. The year before, I had gotten pregnant. Parker said we weren't ready, that our careers came first. I’d had the procedure, heartbroken, and I’d kept the tiny, unformed remains after cremation in that specific urn. "Parker!" I shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated soul-death. "You told me... you said you buried our baby on the South Hill!" Parker looked at my frantic state. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a callous shrug. "I did bury it. But Tinsley wanted to use that spot for a garden project, so she dug it up. It’s just a jar of ash, Jade. Don't be dramatic." The world collapsed. He had cried with me after the surgery. He had sworn to protect that memory. And now, he was letting this woman use our child as paint thinner. "Give him back to me!" I lunged with a strength born of pure madness. I clawed at Tinsley, my nails leaving jagged red tracks across her cheek. "My face! Parker, she’s scarring me!" Tinsley screamed. Parker’s boot caught me square in the stomach, sending me flying back. He snatched the urn from Tinsley’s hands. "You want it so bad?" His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a snarl. He pointed to the open window three stories up. "Go get it!" He threw the urn. It arched through the air, a grey blur against the sky, and vanished out the window. "NO!" That was my life. That was the only thing I had left to live for. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I vaulted over the windowsill and threw myself into the empty air after it. As I fell, the last thing I heard was Parker’s voice, suddenly high and terrified, screaming my name. "JADE!"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "438307", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel