Chapter 1

The sharp, chemical smell of turpentine filled my small room, a scent that used to mean creation and hope.

But not today.

I sat up in bed, and the morning light felt wrong, too bright. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. I looked at the calendar on my wall.

September 12th.

It couldn' t be. That day was years ago. That was the day my life derailed, the day my dream of art school was burned to the ground.

Yet here I was. In my childhood bedroom, the same faded band posters on the wall, the same stack of canvases in the corner. I was eighteen again.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. It felt like a dream, but the coarse texture of my blanket under my fingers was too real. The memory of my other life, the one that ended in a cold, lonely apartment after years of failure and heartbreak, was sharp and clear. I had been given a second chance. A terrible, shocking, wonderful second chance.

I remembered the original day with perfect, painful clarity.

I had been working for weeks on my portfolio for the most important scholarship of my life. It was my only ticket out, my only way to a real art school. My final piece, a large-scale oil painting, was nearly finished. It was the best thing I had ever made.

That morning, my mother, Eleanor, had come into my room with a bright, false smile.

"I brought you something to help, sweetie," she' d said, carrying a tray. On it was a large, unlabeled bottle of what she called "special turpentine" and some old rags. "I found this in the garage. Your father said it' s the good stuff, it' ll help the paint dry faster so you can meet your deadline."

I had been so stressed, so desperate for her approval, that I thanked her. I trusted her.

It was a mistake that cost me everything. The liquid wasn't turpentine. It was a harsh, cheap paint stripper. It didn' t just thin the oil paints, it dissolved them, turning my vibrant colors into a murky, brown sludge that ate through the canvas itself. My masterpiece was ruined. My entire portfolio was compromised.

I missed the deadline. I lost the scholarship.

The memory of their reactions was even worse than the memory of the ruined art.

Eleanor had burst into tears, her face a mask of wounded innocence.

"I was only trying to help!" she sobbed, clutching my father' s arm. "How could I have known? I just wanted to support my daughter."

My father, David, turned on me, his face red with disappointment.

"Look what you' ve done," he' d said, his voice low and heavy. "You' ve broken your mother' s heart. After everything she does for you, this is how you repay her? With accusations and ingratitude?"

My brother, Liam, had leaned against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Maybe it' s for the best," he' d chimed in. "Let' s be honest, Ava. Were you really good enough to get it anyway? Now you can stop wasting money on this art stuff and get a real job."

They ganged up on me, a pack of wolves disguised as a loving family. They made me the villain in a tragedy they had created. I spent years believing them, internalizing the blame until it became a part of me.

But not this time.

Now, lying in my bed on the morning of September 12th, the grief was gone. In its place was a cold, hard stone of certainty. I was not the crazy one. I was not the ungrateful one. I was not the failed one.

They were the problem. And this time, I would not be their victim. This time, they would understand the pain they so casually inflicted. They would feel it themselves.

The doorknob turned.

My mother walked in, carrying the same tray, the same bottle, the same fake, loving smile plastered on her face.

"Good morning, sweetie," she chirped. "I brought you something to help you finish up."

I looked at the bottle of poison on her tray. I looked at her hopeful, manipulative eyes. For a split second, I wanted to scream, to throw the bottle against the wall and tell her I knew what she was.

But I didn't. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and mine would be frozen solid.

I gave her a small, tired smile.

"Thanks, Mom."

My voice was calm, even.

"But I' m all set. I actually went out yesterday and bought some professional-grade thinner and varnish. I want to make sure everything is perfect, you know?"

I gestured to the new, sealed bottles I had placed on my desk just moments before. I hadn't, of course. But the memory of this day was so vivid, I knew exactly what I needed to do. My lie was smooth, unshakable.

Eleanor' s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of confusion, of frustration, crossed her face before being replaced by her usual mask of maternal concern.

"Oh. Well, that' s wonderful, dear. So responsible."

She put the tray down on my dresser, away from my art supplies.

"Just in case you need it."

I watched her leave, the stone in my gut growing heavier. The game had begun.

Later that day, after I had carefully packed my finished portfolio and sent it off by courier, well before the deadline, I sat at my computer. I didn't look at local colleges or the community college my parents had pushed on me in my last life.

I typed in the names of art schools on the other side of the country. New York. California. Oregon.

Anywhere but here.

I started filling out applications, my fingers flying across the keyboard. This was my first step. I wasn't just going to survive. I was going to escape. And I was going to build a life so far away from their poison that they could never touch me again.