I spent three years as Robert’s ghost artist, getting him accepted into Parsons and nominated for prestigious industry awards. Everyone thought I was just a desperate hanger-on, untalented, yet foolishly trying to ride the coattails of a genius. The day he received his award, he kicked me out of the studio in front of everyone, claiming my aesthetic was outdated and I was only fit to be a grunt for truly gifted women. No one knew I endured all his insults and exploitation because his mother had paid off my father’s staggering eight-million-dollar high-interest loans. The moment the debt was settled, I immediately resigned, blocked him, and left the country. Three years later, I returned to the States as the Creative Director for Dior North America, overseeing the opening of its flagship store. And he? He was stuck beyond the velvet ropes, not even cleared to enter. During the opening ceremony, my gambling-addict parents burst in, causing a scene and accusing me on a live stream of being an “ungrateful daughter” and “sleeping my way to the top.” Standing in the crowd, Robert learned the truth for the first time. All those “masterpieces” he’d spent years boasting about? Every single one had been painted by me.
Vivian POV I’d built up Robert’s career, even though he was useless. The entire design world believed I was just his little sidekick, madly pursuing him. Robert stood in front of the poster celebrating his CFDA Award nomination, informing me that my services were no longer needed. “Vivian, your taste is too old-fashioned. It just can’t keep up with my current style.” “You’ve put in three years of hard work, I’ll give you that. But the person I need now is someone with true talent, like Ashley, not some useless little assistant.” I said nothing, glancing at my phone. A notification from my banking app clearly showed the loan had been fully repaid. “Alright, congratulations, Robert, on going solo.” No one knew I’d endured his endless criticisms and truly awful taste purely because his mother had paid off my father’s massive high-interest gambling debt. With the slate wiped clean, I was reclaiming my talent. “Is she really not even going to cry or beg to stay?” “Without Robert’s studio behind her, she won’t even land a layout job at some ad agency.” The studio interns whispered among themselves. The moment they saw Robert approach, his arm linked with Ashley in her designer attire, their expressions shifted instantly. “Vivian, that hick, really doesn’t fit the studio’s international vibe anymore.” “I bet she’ll be back in three days, begging for any job, even scrubbing floors.” Robert adjusted his cuff, a smug smile spreading across his face as he listened to their remarks. “If she truly repents, I might consider letting her come back to clean the studio and order sandwiches.” I took one last look at them, then walked through the hallway lined with Robert’s works, and left. The mocking laughter behind me fell on deaf ears. All I ever wanted was to break free from that expensive garbage heap and create something truly my own.
Vivian POV The air tasted of freedom the moment I left Robert’s studio. A memory flashed: forty-eight hours straight at his graduation piece, until I collapsed against the easel. All Robert cared about then was whether the canvas had been damaged. From now on, every brushstroke would be mine alone. My phone buzzed. It was my father. The moment I answered, a torrent of abuse erupted. “Vivian! Why hasn’t this month’s allowance come through yet? Are you slacking off at Robert’s studio?” I held the phone away from my ear, my voice flat. “Your gambling debts are paid, I’ve quit, and you’re not getting another dime from me.” A second of silence, then my mother’s shrill scream pierced through the phone. “Go beg his mom to get you another job! Even if it’s just being a housekeeper, you have to stay with them!” “I’ve been paying your gambling debts for three years. Legally, I have no obligation to keep filling that bottomless pit.” I hung up immediately and blocked their number. If my father hadn’t been a compulsive gambler, piling up massive high-interest debts, with loan sharks dousing our apartment with paint and threatening to cut off his hands… If the chairwoman of their family’s massive conglomerate-Robert’s mother-hadn’t made an offer: she’d clear our debts if I became Robert’s ghost artist, ensuring his admission to Parsons School of Design and his eventual fame… I wouldn’t have spent three years as a soulless hand, chewing up my inspiration and feeding it to that talentless hack, all while publicly flattering him and playing the part of his devoted sidekick. It was all just for survival. Back in my tiny ten-square-meter apartment, I began the final cleanup. The room was cluttered with discarded sketches-those Robert had deemed too profound, not commercial enough, and tossed aside. I fed all these drawings into the shredder. The machine’s roar swallowed the unsigned works. I wasn’t going to end up doing layouts for an ad agency, as they’d predicted. My portfolio was strong enough that I’d already received a full scholarship acceptance letter from Central Saint Martins in London. My parents wouldn’t let me go easily. A famous designer daughter, in their eyes, was a walking ATM. I had to get away. While packing my suitcase, I found a Montblanc pen. Robert’s mother had casually given it to me that first year I helped him win the Newcomer Award. Robert’s initials were still engraved on the barrel. I tossed the pen into the trash. Things that didn’t belong to me, no matter how expensive, were still just garbage. Just before the cabin doors closed on my flight to London, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Robert. He sent a voice message, his tone filled with entitled questions. “Why did you leave the work group chat? Where are the old color swatches?” Seeing no reply, he sent a text. “Vivian, stop playing games. Even if I have a new muse, you’re still my assistant. Stop messing around. I have a Vogue interview next week, you need to help me prepare the sketches.” I looked at the screen, a cold smile playing on my lips. He was so convinced I couldn’t survive outside his shadow, so entitled that he took my continued ghost-painting for granted. Just as I had for three years, he assumed I’d obediently send him the sketches he needed. On screen, “Typing…” flashed persistently. I stared at his profile picture: a posed photo at a gallery, with my painting The Drowner displayed as his backdrop.
Vivian POV I pulled out my domestic SIM card, snapped it in two. Along with the ID badge that read “Robert’s Studio Assistant,” I tossed them both into the airport trash. The plane soared into the clouds. The city lights below transformed into flowing ribbons of light, and the place that had buried three years of my youth vanished completely. From this moment on, no one would know I was a gambler’s daughter, no one would know I was Robert’s shadow. I was just Vivian. I put on my eye mask and fell into the most peaceful sleep I’d had in three years. A few years flew by quickly. Later, I heard that Robert went from being certain I’d return to becoming increasingly irritable, and his work’s quality plummeted. Publicly, he claimed it was an exploratory transitional period, subtly hinting on social media that his former assistant was “ungrateful.” Meanwhile, I started anew in London as a free artist, studying under a renowned master jewelry designer. Fueled by sweat and talent, my “Aurora” collection shone brightly at the Baselworld Watch and Jewellery Show, winning the Golden Design Award and landing me the role of Creative Director for Dior North America. My return to the States was because Dior was set for a major upgrade in the North American market, and headquarters sent me back to oversee the opening of their first flagship store and a haute couture exhibition. Before my return, backstage at my graduation show at Central Saint Martins in London, I was fluently directing models to adjust their jewelry. My gaze was sharp, confident, no longer that timid Cinderella. When my mentor announced that my work had received the highest honor, I stood center stage on the runway, basking in applause that was entirely my own. This time, no hiding backstage, no giving my name to someone else. At Dior headquarters, the global CEO pushed an appointment letter across the table to me, hoping I’d return to the States to expand the market. He also mentioned the fierce competition there, including the influence of a local prodigy named Robert. Hearing the word “prodigy,” I couldn’t suppress a laugh-the kind of laugh reserved for a joke. The CEO looked a bit puzzled. “Vivian, you know him? I hear he’s the most outstanding rising talent of his generation.” I picked up the pen, a playful glint in my eyes. “You could say I know him… But I’m confident I can show Dior what a true genius is, and what a manufactured fraud looks like.” On the flight back, I flipped through a fashion magazine. Robert and Ashley were on the cover, with the sensational headline: “The Power Couple of Design: Robert’s New Inspiration from His Beloved.” Inside, the so-called new works were a vulgar mishmash of piled-up elements. Without my input, his inspiration had clearly dried up like a desert. Ashley’s ‘muse’ effect wasn’t cutting it. Just before the plane landed, I received a gossipy text from a headhunter. “Director Vivian, be careful when you get back. I hear a brand called ‘Ashley Jewelry’ has been constantly issuing press releases, claiming Dior’s designs are copying theirs…” I turned off my phone, watching the city skyline grow clearer outside the window. Classic hypocrisy. Ashley Jewelry, Ashley… A few years gone, and your audacity has grown as thick as your skin. The plane touched down. I was back home.
Vivian POV At the site for Dior’s flagship store, the mall manager gushed with sales pitch, pointing at blueprints and pushing a remote spot. “Director Vivian, this location might not be on the main thoroughfare, but it’s spacious, and we guarantee foot traffic…” I didn’t look at the blueprints. I pointed directly at the light fixtures on the ceiling. “The natural light refraction angle here is thirty-five degrees. After 3 PM, the jewelry will produce glare. Plus, the customer flow was a dead end.” I looked at him, my voice very even. “Are you trying to pull one over on me?” Cold sweat broke out on the manager’s forehead, and he stammered, unable to speak. “I want the spot in Section C, directly facing the main entrance.” I retracted my gaze, an unyielding tone in my voice. “Also, inform the engineering department. I’ll be adjusting the lighting myself. I don’t want my creations ruined by cheap lighting.” While inspecting the mall, I passed a store under renovation. A huge poster on the hoarding showed Ashley wearing an exaggerated necklace, with the tagline: Ashley Jewelry – Redefining Luxury. The design elements of that necklace, twisted vines, were a crude imitation of one of my discarded university sketches. Robert had picked up my old trash sketches and cobbled them together for Ashley? It was disgusting. It felt like watching someone eat their own vomit. I looked away and instructed my assistant. “From now on, within a hundred meters of any Dior store, I don’t want to see these low-end knock-offs.” On my first day back, I ran into Jessica, an old high school classmate, at a cafe in the trendy gallery district. “Vivian? Is that really you?” I turned around. She was staring wide-eyed, openly appraising me from head to toe. I was wearing a sharply tailored black suit, its brand indiscernible but the quality exquisite. Gone were the paint-splattered messiness and the deliberate blandness of high school. Time and refined taste had given me a minimalist yet sharply assertive edge. Jessica dramatically covered her mouth. “Oh my god, I thought you were still overseas, hiding from debts… Oh no, I mean, studying. You’re dressed so… plainly. Are you selling art at some gallery?” I sipped my black coffee, saying nothing, looking at her as if she were an idiot. My gaze seemed to sting her, and her tone turned even more bitter. “It really is you! What a coincidence! There’s a class reunion tonight, just upstairs, and Robert will be there! He’s the headlining guest now, putting on a solo exhibition!” Robert? I was about to politely decline, citing work. But then I considered Dior’s upcoming collection; there seemed to be a certain thematic overlap with this exhibition. I was curious to see what he could draw without my hand. “Alright.” I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my assistant. “Cancel the brand reception scheduled for next week. Contact the media directly. I’ll be appearing at the Emerging Artists Joint Exhibition in the gallery district tonight, and bring that intellectual property infringement report with me.” Since we were meeting, I might as well bring a big gift. In the evening, I went directly to the exhibition party in my all-black work attire. It was a Dior haute couture suit from the current season, yet to be released. I was too busy to change, but it fit the occasion perfectly. The elevator doors opened. The entrance to the exhibition hall was overflowing with flower baskets from Ashley-a gaudy, unbearably tacky display of red and green. I walked in, dressed in minimalist black, looking out of place, yet exceptionally striking amidst the crowd. Good taste, it seems, truly is innate.
Vivian POV I entered the exhibition hall, not rushing to find anyone. Paintings lined the walls. I stopped in front of the central piece, titled “Rebirth.” It was Robert’s showcase work. The technique was ostentatious, the composition haphazard, a mere pile of paint trying to convey emotion. It was truly difficult for him. Without my help to refine it, his real skill was like exposing his artistic nakedness. Pushing open the minimalist glass door of the VIP lounge, the crisp clinking of champagne glasses washed over me. I scanned the room, my gaze settling on the main display area. Robert was giving a media interview. He looked more like an artist than he did in high school, with a carefully trimmed beard, wearing a linen designer shirt, striking affected poses. A woman with garish clothes and plastered with logos, as if price tags were stuck to her forehead, was clinging to his arm. It wasn’t the popular girl from back then. It seemed his taste had deteriorated even more than I’d imagined. Through the crowd, I heard Robert speak into the microphone, his voice full of feigned emotion. “The inspiration for this painting comes from the most painful severance deep within my heart. I lost a… very important assistant. But it was precisely this pain that shaped who I am today.” I almost laughed out loud. To present being dumped by me in such a pristine way-he really was a true theatrical personality. “Oh my god! Look! Robert! Your little sidekick, Vivian, is here!” A sharp-eyed male classmate suddenly shouted. The refined atmosphere of the exhibition hall instantly crumbled. All eyes, filled with surprise and schadenfreude, swiveled to focus on me. Robert spun around, his champagne glass shaking slightly. That profound, artistic demeanor instantly collapsed, replaced by ghost-struck shock and the uneasy feeling of being exposed. The woman beside him, sensing his sudden stiffness, dug her fingers into his arm. She looked at me with a gaze as if scrutinizing a counterfeit, then spat out my name. “Vivian?” I ignored the whispers and walked directly to a sofa in the exhibition’s lounge area, casually picking up an exhibition catalog to flip through. I remained perfectly composed, as if what I was reading wasn’t people’s mockery, but the beautifully printed garbage in my hands. Jessica was the first to approach. She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on my black suit. “Vivian? Is that really you? That gloomy black outfit, did you get it from a discount store? It doesn’t even have a brand label. Look at us, we’re all wearing designer brands today.” I turned a page in the catalog, not bothering to look up. “It’s my work uniform. Easy to keep clean.” It was indeed my work uniform, a Dior haute couture utility suit from the current, unreleased season. A male classmate nearby burst into laughter, his voice dripping with humiliation. “Work uniform? Looks like being an overseas returnee means you’re doing manual labor. Are you moving art at some gallery, or a wall painter? My renovation company happens to need someone to paint murals; we pay by the hour. Interested?” Jessica covered her mouth, feigning sympathy. “Oh, don’t say that. Vivian, if you’re really struggling, I can give you some of my old season clothes to help you look presentable. The talented girl from back then, now so down on her luck she can’t even afford a brand label. It’s quite heartbreaking to see.” Amidst the chorus of mockery, I looked up at Robert. He didn’t join in the mockery, but he didn’t stop it either. He was staring intently at my hand as I flipped through the catalog, his eyes shifting nervously. In his gaze, beyond arrogance, there was a new layer of fear. He was afraid I would publicly critique his work and embarrass him. I closed the catalog and returned his gaze with a knowing smile.
Vivian POV The air was thick with sycophantic praise for Ashley. Ashley deliberately twirled her wrist, showing off her brand’s new bracelet. My gaze swept over the jewelry-the prongs were too long, completely obscuring the main stone’s fire, and there were obvious solder marks at the metal joints, typical of mass-produced factory work. That such shoddy pieces could be called independent designs truly meant the bar for the domestic market had lowered. Seeing such garbage pollute my vision filled me with a sense of the absurd. Ashley scoffed, looking down at me. “Vivian, do you remember those days when you used to clean Robert’s brushes and run errands for coffee?” She linked her arm through Robert’s, her tone boastful. “Now Robert is a master designer, and I’ve founded my own jewelry brand, ‘Ashley Jewelry,’ and we’re in talks to enter top-tier malls. We’re the perfect blend of art and commerce.” Everyone around nodded in agreement. Ashley looked at me as if offering alms to a beggar. “If you’re truly starving, you can come work as a setter at my factory. It’s hard work, but at least you’d be dealing with jewelry, which is better than doing odd jobs out there.” “No, thank you. I’m allergic to lab-grown cubic zirconia.” Ashley’s cheek twitched, and she instinctively covered the main stone on her bracelet with her other hand. Her movement was too quick, fueled by guilt. So you knew it was fake. Seeing that she hadn’t managed to humiliate me, Ashley shot me a disdainful glance and threw out a bigger bait. “I understand, after all, people at your level don’t get to rub shoulders with the truly elite. Do you know who I’m collaborating with next? Dior’s new Creative Director!” The room instantly fell silent. Ashley reveled in everyone’s attention. “That director is young and brilliant, a visionary in the design world, incredibly hard to get an appointment with. But, I’ve already secured an invitation to her private viewing through internal connections.” She turned to me, her voice laced with both threat and a false promise. “Once Dior and I finalize our collaboration, perhaps I can ask her to give you a few pointers. That would be a blessing you couldn’t earn in a lifetime.” A gasp of admiration went through the crowd. “Oh my god, a Dior executive!” “Ashley, your connections are out of this world! You’re even connected with a top luxury brand like that!” A bystander asked curiously, “Who exactly is this Creative Director?” Ashley tilted her chin, lying without a flicker of hesitation. “She’s a very distinctive talent, and we’ve had some very engaging chats via email.” I closed my book, leaning slightly forward, watching her with interest. “You two are very close then? Did she ever mention what her least favorite design element is?” Ashley froze for a moment. Then, she brazenly fabricated, “Of course it’s… mediocrity! Like your kind of mediocrity!” I said nothing, just smiled at her. Ashley seemed flustered and turned to Robert for affirmation. “Robert, you also think we can collaborate, right?” Robert looked embarrassed, his gaze still fixed on my face. “I hope we can collaborate.” I looked at the crudely imitated necklace around Ashley’s neck, my expression undisturbed. Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the exhibition hall entrance. David, Dior’s PR director, hurried in clutching an urgent document. “Excuse me, please… I have an urgent matter that requires the director’s signature.” He was impeccably suited, a folder stamped with the Dior gold logo in hand, his expression tense and deferential. The moment Robert saw him, his gaze shifted. I knew he’d noticed it-the haute couture brooch on David’s lapel. This was no junior staff member. Robert’s palms grew damp. He took a subtle step forward, an instinctive move toward proximity and influence. But David’s attention never drifted toward Ashley. It remained, intently, on me.
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