All three of the boys who grew up with me used to love me. Until the life model walked through the door. I set my palette knife down against the edge of the easel and told her she could get dressed. Grant Mercer immediately frowned, his shoulders tensing under his varsity fleece. “Piper, don’t treat people like they’re beneath you.” I froze, caught completely off guard. Then I saw the way he was looking at her—an unmistakable, protective ache flickering behind his eyes. I turned toward the other two sitting by the bay window. “And you two? Do you feel the same way?” Miles Palmer took an instinctive step backward, raising both hands to put distance between himself and Grant. “Piper, everything you paint is brilliant.” “Seriously,” Miles added, trying to diffuse the air. “Even if you weren’t painting a human being, if Piper paints it, it’s the most gorgeous android on earth.” 1 Miles’s joke made Summer Brooks stiffen on the model’s pedestal. She stood there in her nude slip, the linen sundress in her hands hovering mid-air—paralyzed between pulling it over her head and dropping it altogether. Helpless, she cast her gaze toward Grant. Grant’s jaw tightened. He moved past me, placing himself half an inch in front of her line of sight, and let out a heavy, weary sigh. “I’m the one who spoke up. There’s no need to humiliate her.” I couldn’t make sense of it. Summer was the one who had tracked me down through the portfolio prep forum in the first place. She’d told me she would much rather sit for a solo female artist in a private studio than strip in front of thirty strangers in a drafty community college auditorium. Besides, she was wearing skin-toned modesty undergarments. I met her eyes. “Summer, did I make you feel uncomfortable? Did you feel forced into this?” Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress, knuckles white. “I… I didn’t mean…” Grant glanced back at her. In that single second, her lower lip trembled, her eyes flooded with moisture, and she dropped her chin. It was a picture of utter, suffocating degradation. “I came because I wanted to,” she whispered. Silence swallowed the studio. I wiped the raw umber off my palette and began capping my oil tubes. “If this isn’t what you signed up for, you don’t need to come back.” Her head snapped up, panic flashing across her damp face. “Wait, I didn’t say—” I had already turned my back and walked out. 2 Footsteps followed me out toward the sun terrace. Usually, there were three sets of footsteps behind me. This time, there were only two. Elliott Sinclair and Miles pulled out the wrought-iron chairs across from me. The afternoon breeze lifted the linen drapes along the colonnade. Elliott spoke first, his tone gentle, measured, and rational as always. “Don’t be angry, Piper. If she’s gone, I’ll hire you another model tomorrow, okay? To be fair, she reached out to Grant privately a few days ago. She was crying, talking about how hard things are at home with tuition and bills. He just got caught up in feeling sorry for her.” A maid stepped out onto the terrace, setting down three glasses of freshly squeezed juice. I took a small sip, saying nothing. The heavy, hurried thud of sneakers echoed across the hardwood floor. Grant strode out without looking, picked up my glass, drained half of it in one swallow, and dropped into the seat beside me. “Princess, what are you throwing a tantrum for now?” he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. “A high school senior working extra shifts as a life model instead of studying for finals—I just thought she had it rough. It doesn’t mean anything else.” The memory of the way Summer had looked up at him—frail, dependent, eyes wide—flashed behind my eyelids. I slid the half-empty glass across the glass table, pushing it completely into his space. “Finish it. I’m not thirsty.” Grant’s expression softened, his voice dropping into that familiar, cajoling cadence. “Look, she was in tears earlier. She’s completely broke. I told her she could come back tomorrow. Piper, you need a figure model for your portfolio anyway…” I narrowed my eyes. “Why does your charity have to come out of my studio time?” None of them answered. A suffocating irritation settled over my chest. I pushed my chair back and stood up, ready to get away from all three of them. As I crossed the threshold back into the main house, Grant called out from the terrace: “Piper, I’ll cover her fee!” 3 The four of us had grown up together in the same gated estate, and over the years, my house had naturally become the center of gravity. When I paint, I prefer total silence. But after years of them hanging around, bringing their game consoles and homework, they had developed a habit of just lounging in the corner while I worked at the canvas. The next afternoon, Summer arrived right on time. When I pushed open the studio door, she was already leaning against the windowsill, chatting with the three boys. A bright, excited glow lit up her delicate face. The moment she saw me enter, the smile vanished instantly. She stood up awkwardly, smoothing her skirt. “Miss Ross… do you want me standing again today?” “Why don’t you sit?” Grant spoke before I could open my mouth. “Your seated posture looks more natural anyway.” Summer looked over at him, a faint blush rushing across her cheekbones. Then she glanced sideways at me, biting her tongue. A dry, bitter humor rose in my throat. I picked up my charcoal stick. “Actually, change of plans. Today we’re doing full life study. No base layer.” Behind me, Miles gasped, slapping both hands over his eyes with exaggerated theatrics. “Whoa, Piper, going full uncensored masterclass today?” 4 A layer of mist gathered in Summer’s eyes with breathtaking speed. She bit her trembling lip, clutching the hem of her dress as though peeling off the cotton fabric she’d taken off a hundred times before was suddenly an insurmountable humiliation. “Miss Ross… does it really have to be like this…?” I didn’t answer. I just watched her. “What’s the issue? Didn’t you tell me you’ve done full nude studies for the community college figure drawing classes all semester?” Her eyes widened in horror. A single tear tracked down her cheek, perfectly staged, as if I had dragged her through the mud. Grant stood up abruptly, knocking his chair back. “Piper, why are you targeting her like this? Life models have dignity too. She has parents, a family!” A white-hot spike of fury shot straight to my temples. I hurled my palette knife straight at his feet. It struck the hardwood floor with a sharp, resonant clatter. “Art models deserve respect as professionals,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “In any serious art academy, we address them as studio professionals and treat their bodies with objective reverence. What kind of vulgar, dirty narrative are you cooking up in your head?” I turned my gaze squarely on Summer. “And you. If I remember correctly, the rate I offered you from day one was the full nude studio rate. I allowed you to wear modesty wear only because there were boys hanging around my house. Now that you’re asked to do the actual job you were contracted for, you put on this tearful, persecuted routine. What, did being treated decently make you think you could cash the paycheck and play the martyr?” Summer’s face went chalk-white. The tear hanging on her cheek seemed to freeze in place. I let out a low laugh. “If you don’t want to work, get out. Don’t use my studio as your private audition stage to bait boys.” “Piper!” Grant stepped in front of her again, his chest heaving. “That is way over the line!” “Oh, and you,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose, thoroughly disgusted. “You’re the one paying her, right? Then you can get the hell out with her.” 5 I turned on my heel and walked out of the studio. They say artists shouldn’t waste their energy losing their tempers—when your blood pressure spikes, you ruin your brushwork. Without Grant, the other two still trailed after me down the hall. Miles ran down to the kitchen and brought up a cup of warm ginseng-ginger tea. “Piper, come on, don’t let it get to you. It’s really not that big a deal.” He nudged Elliott with his elbow. “Hey, say something. You know I’m terrible with words.” Elliott was staring down at his phone screen, his brow furrowed. “Grant just posted on his Instagram,” Elliott said quietly. “What?” Miles leaned over Elliott’s shoulder, then blurted out, “Holy shit, what is wrong with him? Is he actually picking a model over Piper? Can’t he see what she’s doing? She’s textbook manipulative!” My eyes shifted toward Elliott’s screen. Grant’s post was right at the top. Met someone new. Incredibly kind, pure-hearted, and working hard against the odds. Can’t wait to introduce her to everyone. Attached was a photo of Summer. She was sitting in a sunlit patch of grass, wearing a simple white sundress, arms wrapped around her knees, smiling shyly into the lens like a fragile wildflower. In the reflection of Elliott’s dark, quiet eyes, I saw my own face—completely expressionless. “Piper,” Elliott murmured, “don’t let it hurt you.” 6 In reality, looking at the calendar for portfolio submission deadlines, losing one life model didn’t actually derail my schedule. I just hadn’t expected such a petty melodrama to erupt right before I left for the intensive portfolio bootcamp in the city. Before leaving, I had a mountain of professional oil pigments and stretched canvases to pick up. It wasn’t until Miles texted me that I remembered tomorrow was their high school invitational basketball tournament. I had promised weeks ago that I would be there in the front row to cheer them on. When I arrived at the private school’s arena, Summer was already sitting in the VIP box. Our school had strict security; non-students weren’t allowed past the gates without at least two registered student passes. My eyes swept across the faces on the court below, and before I could move, a soft, powdery scent brushed past me. Summer slipped into the seat right next to mine. “Miss Ross. We meet again.” “Did you bring enough tissues today?” I asked evenly. She caught the jab, but instead of tearing up, she let out a faint, knowing smile. “No tears today, Miss Ross. Don’t hate me. You know my family’s situation. Modeling alone isn’t enough to cover what we need.” So the boys who grew up catering to my every whim had become her easiest leverage. I said nothing. She placed an unopened bottle of water in front of me. “I still wanted to say I’m sorry.” I almost admired her sheer brazenness. But I had no intention of granting her absolution. “There’s no point in apologizing for something you did with absolute intention.” Down on the hardwood, the game was intense. But Grant, our star point guard, kept losing his focus, his gaze repeatedly drifting up toward our section of the stands. Suddenly, Summer tumbled off her seat, hitting the concrete steps with a sharp thud. Down below, Grant dropped the basketball instantly. He sprinted toward the stands, taking the stairs three at a time. “Summer?!” The whistle blew. Play halted. Every set of eyes in the arena swung toward our corner. Grant reached her, hauling her up by her arms. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “My knees… it hurts so much…” She didn’t accuse me. She didn’t say a single word about how she had fallen. She just let out soft, shuddering gasps of pain. Grant looked up at me, his eyes dark with disappointment and anger. “Piper, was this really necessary?” 7 The arena had overhead surveillance. Summer was undeniably smart; from beginning to end, she never once pointed a finger at me. Yet both of her knees had scraped against the metal edging of the row below. Blood was oozing through the grazes, looking gruesome against her pale skin. Elliott came up the stairs, taking in the scene. Unlike Grant, he didn’t immediately blame me. “Let’s get her to the trainer’s room first.” They hurried off, supporting her between them. Only Miles remained behind, standing on the concrete steps, looking completely lost. “Piper… did you really push her?” 8 The surveillance angle was partially blocked by the row of high-backed arena chairs in front of us. Still, if you watched closely, you could see the slight shift in her balance—she had slipped on her own. Pulling the security footage and exporting the clip felt exhausting and beneath me, but I refused to carry a manufactured blame. Especially knowing I was being used as a stepping stone. I dropped the video file into our four-person group chat. The chat stayed dead for an hour. Finally, a voice note from Grant popped up. Piper, stop assuming the worst of people. Summer never once said you did it. I let out a slow, quiet breath. In that moment, I suddenly understood the fierce, blind bias Grant was giving her. Because once upon a time, that blind protection belonged exclusively to me. When we were nine years old, I actually did push another kid during a game on the neighborhood playground. I had panicked, terrified of getting in trouble, and run to the three of them in tears. It was clearly me who had cheated in the game and shoved the boy when he called me out on it. Yet all three of them had stood in front of the neighborhood parents, lying through their teeth with fierce conviction: “Piper didn’t push him!” “He tripped over his own clumsy feet and tried to blame her because he lost!” “Yeah! Piper would never do that!” Even as a kid, I had felt a pang of guilt, but they had maintained that united front to the adults without a single crack. Back then, the objective truth never mattered to them. Only I did. How could I not mourn the loss of that? I swallowed the lump in my throat. Before packing my bags for the train, I blocked Grant’s number. 9 The next morning, Miles showed up at my front gate. “Piper, I swear, they just feel sorry for her. You haven’t seen it—her mom is in the county hospital, hooked up to all these monitors, and she was still thanking us for looking out for Summer.” “So you went to the hospital too?” My voice was flat, leaving no room for doubt. Miles’s face changed instantly. He stammered, mumbled a half-hearted excuse about forgetting his gym bag, and practically ran out the driveway. A moment later, my phone buzzed. A notification popped up in our old four-person group chat. Miles: @everyone Guys, what do I do? I think I just slipped up in front of Piper! One second later. Miles Palmer recalled a message. I had always thought of myself as resilient. Yet right then, a hollow, freezing draft seemed to rip through my ribs, cold as mid-January frost, chilling me down to the marrow. They had a separate group chat without me. I tapped the screen and left the group. Within seconds, Miles slid into my direct messages. Piper, you’re taking this the wrong way! Summer doesn’t have any bad intentions, she just looked up to you. She wanted to be part of our circle, but she was scared you’d reject her. We were just trying to ease her into the group gradually so you wouldn’t feel overwhelmed… I stared at the glowing screen. The text messages didn’t morph into anything softer no matter how long I looked. A soft knock came at my bedroom door. “Miss Piper,” the driver said gently from the hall. “The car is loaded. It’s time to head to the station.” 10 Suburban estates and lush tree lines receded outside the train window. After a three-hour ride, I arrived at the intensive fine arts residency in the neighboring metro area. Every ambitious high school portfolio applicant seemed to be packed into this converted warehouse studio. Canvases brushed against canvases, the smell of turpentine and linseed oil hung thick in the unconditioned heat, and the sheer density of people was suffocating. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar bunk bed, or the hum of the city outside, but I tossed and turned long past midnight. Opening my feed, I found it flooded with Summer’s updates. The four of them had gone to an indie cinema. Afterward, they had gone to the Italian bistro where I celebrated my birthday every single year. Summer had posted photos at every single location. In the group picture, she stood right in the center, flanked by Grant, Elliott, and Miles. By an eerie coincidence, her pose—head tilted slightly, one hand tucked into her oversized cardigan—was nearly identical to the pinned photo on my profile from last summer. I looked at it in silence. Then, I unpinned my old photo and deleted it. A second later, a direct message notification pinged. An unknown account had sent an image. It was a candid snapshot of my profile, sitting at an easel in the residency hall earlier that afternoon, charcoal dust smudged along my jawline. ? I replied. The other person sent back a smiling emoji. Didn’t expect to run into you here. The chat history was completely blank. I clicked through his profile pictures, studying the sharp jawline, the dark, attentive eyes, and the faint dimple near the corner of his mouth. A vague, distant memory surfaced. Are you… the ‘cheater’? … A voice note arrived. The voice was deep, smooth, laced with helpless amusement. For the record, I wasn’t the one cheating at the game… It was him. I had to admit it. Back on the neighborhood playground, the game had required the drawn pair to play bride and groom. I was shy and stubborn, threw a fit, and when he walked over to take his spot, I shoved him straight into the gravel pit. Both his knees and palms had bled. I had been terrified. And my three boys had framed him so thoroughly that the neighborhood kids called him ‘the cheater’ for years afterward. An awkward heat rose to my cheeks. About what happened back then… I’m really sorry. The ‘typing’ indicator pulsed at the top of the screen. A long paragraph finally came through. Back then, I really envied the four of you. Your bond seemed completely unbreakable. Unfortunately… no matter how hard I tried, I could never get close. I still remember Grant’s fist hitting my jaw behind the community center. That hurt like hell. Anyway, water under the bridge. They didn’t like me, and I got the message. At the end of the text, he tacked on a slightly exaggerated sad-face emoji. I could only type back: There really wasn’t anything worth envying. 11 Inside the studio warehouse, there was no special treatment. Everyone was there to grind for portfolio reviews. It was sweltering, and everyone had to endure it. Easels were crammed edge to edge. The humid air was so thick with sweat and solvent that my head began to spin. Suddenly, a small plastic hand fan was held out in front of my face. In a room like this, nothing was more practical. I blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of smiling, teasing eyes. “No need to push me this time,” he whispered, winking. “It’s yours. You don’t have to return it.” Wesley Rhodes. In a strange, suffocating studio where everyone was an exhausted stranger, running into a childhood acquaintance felt like an unexpected gasp of fresh air. He smiled, and the dimple on his left cheek caught the afternoon light. “Piper, looks like fate has a sense of humor.” I had braced myself for an agonizing three months of isolation. Yet with Wesley around, the rhythm of the days shifted entirely. During our outdoor landscape session, we had to hike up into the botanical valley carrying twenty pounds of field easels, boards, and wet oil supplies. I could handle the weight, but three miles uphill under a heavy sky wore down even the strongest students. Halfway up the ridge, the clouds broke into a sudden summer downpour. Panic rippled through the group. Students scrambled, shouting, desperately trying to shield their wet oil palettes—if the rain mixed into the freshly blended paints, weeks of color-mixing and expensive pigments would be ruined. Suddenly, a broad canopy opened over my head. I looked up. Wesley held the fiberglass umbrella firmly, rain cascading in sheets off the rim, creating a translucent curtain of water that sealed us off from the chaos around us. “Hold this,” he said. He pressed the umbrella handle into my hand, bent down, and effortlessly lifted the heavy canvas bag from my shoulder, slinging it across his own back in one smooth motion. “Hey,” I called after him. “Give it back. It’s way too heavy, and you’ll fall behind the group.” “It’s just a passing shower. We won’t fall behind.” He kept walking steadily ahead. I had no choice but to hold the umbrella high and match his stride. “I never knew you were this thoughtful.” “Back then…” He lowered his lashes, his voice dropping slightly. “They never gave me the chance to get close enough for you to find out.” His expression was obscured by the mist, but the quiet, lingering melancholy in his tone was impossible to miss. A wave of irrational impulse washed over me. “I don’t plan on being around those three anymore anyway,” I blurted out. Wesley stopped and turned his head. His dark eyes flared with an undeniable, luminous light. “Really?” “Really.” And just like that, as if on cue, the mountain rain ceased, and the sun broke through the gray canopy. 12 The ninety-day residency flew by in a blur of charcoal dust and oil paint. Immediately following was the national portfolio evaluation and practical entrance exams. Preliminary reviews, live model assessments, and panel interviews drained the last ounce of our stamina. When Wesley casually mentioned that his first-choice institution was the same prestigious National Fine Arts Conservatory as mine, I wasn’t even surprised anymore—I was just too exhausted to banter. On the final afternoon of testing, I dragged my feet out of the academy gates. Wesley was already standing by the stone steps. He naturally took my heavy portfolio case with one hand and pressed a warm thermos of spiced tea into the other. “Let’s go. Time to head home.” I looked at him, feeling a tight, exhausted knot in my chest suddenly loosen. Just as the car was about to pull out, the livery car his family had booked broke down with an engine fault. Wesley walked over to my window with an apologetic smile. “Mind if I hitch a ride back to Crestview?” I was running on empty. I nodded, leaned against the leather headrest, and drifted off into a haze. Sometime during the ride, I felt the seat beside me dip, and a jacket smelling faintly of linseed oil and cedar was draped gently over my shoulders. In that half-awake state, a random thought drifted through my mind. Wait… didn’t the Rhodes family move away from Crestview years ago? 13 The moment the car crossed back into Crestview, my phone lit up with a text from Elliott. Piper, are you back in town? I think I just saw your family’s car pass the gatehouse. I stared at the screen, unsure of how to respond. Among the three of them, Elliott was the only one with whom I hadn’t had an explosive confrontation. Yet Miles’s misdirected text had made it crystal clear: there was a private group created solely around Summer, and Elliott had been sitting right in the middle of it. I couldn’t pretend that didn’t sting. Because I didn’t reply, his phone call came through seconds later. His voice was as calm and cultured as ever. “Piper? Are you home? How did the conservatory practicals go?” Before I could answer, he continued smoothly: “Tomorrow is Summer’s birthday. Grant is hosting a private dinner for her at Bellwether. Piper… can you come?” I remained silent. A soft sigh traveled through the receiver. “Summer told us she wants to explain everything to you in person. She never intended to push you out. And neither did we—Grant, Miles, and I. When you left the group, it really hurt all of us. Friends shouldn’t let a fight drag on this long. We’re meeting in the private dining room at Bellwether tomorrow night. We all hope you’ll show up.” Exhaustion weighed down my limbs. I offered a noncommittal brush-off: “We’ll see.” I ended the call. Wesley was watching me from the passenger seat. When I caught his gaze, the corners of his mouth lifted, revealing that faint, familiar dimple. “Get some rest, Piper. Sleep well tonight.” 14 The next evening, Elliott’s call woke me from a late nap. My voice was rough with irritation. “What is it?” A brief pause on the other end. “Piper, I’m outside your driveway. I came to pick you up.” “When did I say I was going?” His tone leveled out, carrying that familiar, reasonable edge. “Summer has been blaming herself this whole time, thinking you left town and hid away at the residency because of her.” He paused, then added: “There’s no need to make things so dramatic. You know how long the four of us have been together. But Piper… relationships have to expand. Summer is someone we’ve all accepted into our lives. You have to at least try to be around her.” I looked at the vintage grandfather clock in the corner of my room. The pendulum swung with steady, indifferent precision. Tick. Tack. For some reason, an eerie calm settled over me. “Fine,” I said quietly. “I’ll come.” 15 Elliott was normally a man of few words. Yet on the drive over, he spoke continuously, trying to pave the way for Summer. He used an analogy: even in families with only children, if the parents decide to have a second child later in life, the older child has to learn to accept the newcomer as part of the household. Just like Summer. He didn’t say it outright, but the message was clear: in the three months I was away, Summer had become an indispensable part of their inner circle. I looked out the window. “I used to think the four of us were going to be in each other’s lives forever.” Elliott gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t say another word for the rest of the ride. Outside the private dining suite at Bellwether, he suddenly reached out and caught my wrist, a conflicted shadow crossing his face. “If you really don’t want to do this, I can drive you straight home right now…” Before I could respond, the heavy wooden door swung open from the inside. Summer’s eyes lit up. “Elliott! You really managed to bring Piper!” A three-second silence hung in the doorway. Then, I heard Elliott let out a low, almost imperceptible, “Yeah.” Summer looked at me with delicate, wide-eyed deference. “Elliott didn’t force you to come, did he?” She hurried into an eager explanation: “The boys are all so sweet. None of them judged me for my modeling work at the college, and they all wanted to drive over and pick you up themselves when they heard you were back. But I thought Elliott is always the most grounded and gentle—he wouldn’t pressure you. Piper… I really am here with pure sincerity.” Inside the suite, Grant and Miles were sitting close together on the velvet banquet. Between them was an empty seat with a full set of silver cutlery laid out—it didn’t take a genius to figure out who that seat was reserved for. I picked a random chair near the exit and sat down. To my surprise, Elliott pulled out the chair directly beside mine and sat down, his eyes lowered. Nobody spoke. A heavy, suffocating silence gripped the room. Summer signaled the server. The staff quickly cleared the extra glassware from the table, leaving only two crystal glasses in front of us. Summer picked up a carafe of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, filled my glass to the brim, and set it down with exaggerated care. “Piper, I know you used to share drinks and glasses with the guys all the time. I know it might take some getting used to having boundaries now. But now that you’re back, I’m more than happy to step back and let you have your boys back—” “Ah—!” Summer didn’t get to finish her sentence. With absolute, measured calm, I picked up the heavy crystal glass and poured the dark red juice directly over her head. The crimson liquid soaked through her styled hair, dripping down her pale forehead and staining her pristine white silk dress. Grant snapped. He lunged forward, shoving his chair back as he pulled her away. “Piper! What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you really have to torment her to death?!” Miles jumped up in a panic as well, ripping open hot towels from the service tray and frantically dabbing at the stains on her collar. Summer broke down into breathless, shuddering sobs. I let go of the glass. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered into sparkling shards. “Provoking me over and over—wasn’t that just to get me to play the villain in your little damsel routine?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. “Now that I’ve played my part, tell me: where exactly are you planning to replace me next?”
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