Chapter 1

My best friend, Noah, had my hands broken. He did it so I could never paint again.

Then he told my wife, Olivia, that I had lost my mind, that my art had consumed me and made me a danger to myself.

He convinced her to send me to a place called the Creative Rehabilitation Center. A place meant to "correct" artists like me.

I begged. I told them Noah was lying, that he was destroying me.

My mother-in-law, Sarah, just shook her head.

"Ethan, Noah is successful. He knows what's best. You've been so unstable, chasing this art dream. It's time to be realistic."

Olivia wouldn't look at me. Her voice was flat, empty.

"I can't live like this anymore, Ethan. The bills, the uncertainty. You need help. This is for the best."

They sent me away.

In that "center," they didn't help me. They starved me. They beat me. My broken hands never healed.

I died on a cold floor, alone.

Now, I'm a ghost. A spectator to the life that was stolen from me.

I float in the corner of a lavish party at Noah's new mansion. It' s a celebration of his recent success, a gallery opening that features paintings that look eerily like my own lost collection.

Laughter echoes off the high ceilings. Everyone is here.

"Did you hear about Ethan Miller?" a woman in a red dress whispers to her friend, not bothering to keep her voice down. "Apparently, he had a complete breakdown. Such a shame, all that talent wasted."

Her friend snorted. "Talent? He was a mess. Olivia is so much better off with Noah looking after her. He's a real man, stable and successful."

Their words don't hurt anymore. They are just noise, like the clinking of champagne glasses.

Noah stands in the center of the room, soaking in the praise. He's wearing a tailored suit, looking every bit the art world mogul he always wanted to be. He has my life.

"Noah, you are a genius!" an art critic gushes, shaking his hand. "Your vision is unparalleled. You've truly revitalized the landscape."

Noah smiles, a picture of false humility.

"I just try to support true art."

His eyes find Olivia, who is standing by the fireplace. She looks beautiful in a dark blue dress, but there's a shadow in her eyes. She keeps glancing toward the door, a flicker of something I can't quite name. Hope? Guilt?

She hasn't smiled all night.

Mark Peterson, Noah's loyal assistant, scurries over to her. He was the one who drove me to the center. He was the one who held me down while the orderlies broke my hands.

"Olivia," he says with a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry. I heard from the center today. Ethan is… adjusting. He's still rebellious, but Dr. Reed says that's part of the process."

He' s lying. I' ve been dead for a month.

Olivia's shoulders slump in what looks like relief.

"He just needs to accept it," she murmurs, more to herself than to Mark. "Once he lets go of that stubborn pride, he can come home. I'll forgive him then."

Forgive me?

A cold, hollow laugh builds inside my spectral form. She' ll forgive me. For being betrayed. For being murdered.

The arrogance is breathtaking. She stands in the house my stolen art paid for, listening to the lies of the man who killed me, and talks about forgiveness.