CHAPTER 1: What Is Peace?

"What is peace?" I typed the caption. "What, who, or where do you regard as your peace? Inspire me.”

The glow of my phone was the only thing lighting my dark bedroom. I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the painting I’d just uploaded to my art profile.

It was a piece I’d finished at 3 o’clock in the morning, when the house was finally quiet enough for me to breathe.

It showed a woman with her head tilted back, her mouth pulled into a silent, jagged scream. It wasn't pretty, but it was honest.

The notifications started to roll in. People loved the "tortured artist" vibe, unaware that the real torture was passed out in the living room right below me.

“Peace is having enough money to never look at a price tag,” the first comment read.

I let out a short, dry laugh. If money bought peace, I wouldn't feel like my chest was being crushed. I had been recognized in the art world since I was eleven. I had made plenty of money, but I never saw a dime of it. My mother made sure of that.

A sudden crash downstairs made me freeze. Then came the loud, thumping bass of a pop song that didn't belong at nine o'clock on a Tuesday morning. I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

I shut my laptop and headed downstairs. The smell hit me immediately: stale gin and cheap cigar smoke.

My mother, Katerina, was swaying in the middle of the living room in a tattered silk robe. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, her eyes bloodshot and glassy.

"What are you doing up there all day, Nirvana?" she slurred.

"It’s morning, Mom," I said, my voice heavy with exhaustion. "And you’re drunk already."

"It’s New Orleans, nobody cares what time it is," she waved her glass around. "Did you check the college admissions?"

I walked into the kitchen, ignoring the sticky mess on the counters. "I told you yesterday. I can't check it because I haven't paid the f*e. You took the money I saved in my drawer."

She laughed. "I didn't take it. I invested it. Well, sell a painting then. Sell that one with the screaming lady. Some idiot will pay a fortune for it."

She stumbled toward the stairs. I watched her disappear, my throat tightening. She didn't see my work as art. She saw it as a way to fund her next bottle.

I couldn't stay in the house. I grabbed my jacket and spent the day walking the humid city streets, desperate for a few hours where I could just pretend to be a normal nineteen-year-old.

But eventually, the sun went down, and I had to go back.

The house was dead silent when I walked in. That was usually a bad sign. I hurried up to my room, and the second I opened the door, my stomach dropped. My desk was bare. My closet hung wide open.

I ran into the small room I used as a studio and stopped in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat.

It was empty.

Every canvas I had worked on for the last year was gone. The screaming woman, the landscapes, the sketches. All of it.

The moment I heard front door opened downstairs, I didn't hesitate. I marched down the steps, my blood pounding in my ears.

My mother was standing in the foyer, proudly clutching a brand-new, bright blue designer handbag to her chest. She gave me a wide, fake smile.

"Look what I got, Nir! It was on sale."

"Where are my paintings, Mom?" I asked, my voice low and surprisingly steady.

"Oh, those?" She waved a hand dismissively. "They were just taking up space. You’re a genius, honey. You can just paint more tomorrow."

"You sold my life for a bag?" I screamed. A hot surge of rage finally shattered my numbness. "That was my portfolio! That was my only way out of this house!"

Her face hardened instantly. She stepped forward, and before I could react, her hand swung out, catching me hard across the face. The slap echoed, the sting immediate and sharp. A single tear slipped down my cheek.

"Don't you ever raise your voice to me," she hissed. "I brought you into this world. Everything you make belongs to me."

"I wish you hadn't," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I wish you’d just left me alone."

"I didn't ask to be a mother either, Nir," she snapped back. She turned on her heel and locked herself inside her bedroom.

I retreated to my room and slumped on the floor against my bed, drowning in the silence. I reached for my phone. I didn't call my brother, Ronan. He was in New York. And every time I complained, he just told me to hold on a little longer. He didn't understand.

Instead, I opened my messages to the only person who felt real to me. Adrian.

He was Ronan's best friend. He was older, my brother's agemate but probably older and in his late twenties.

I'd always known Adrian, like almost my whole life. But things had definitely changed.

It had started with art, but lately, it was something else. He was the only person who didn't look at me like a paycheck or a victim.

Nirvana:

“I can't do this anymore. She took everything.”

I waited. One minute. Two. Then his name appeared.

Adrian:

“What did she do?”

I typed furiously, telling him about the stolen paintings, the bag, the slap. I told him how I felt like I was disappearing.

Adrian:

“You aren't disappearing. You're too bright for that. Just stay calm.”

But I did not want calm. Not anymore.

Nirvana:

“I don't want to stay calm. I want to feel something else. Anything else.”

My heart raced. He was off-limits. He was forbidden. He was alike a brother to me. But the rage and the sadness were making me reckless. I just wanted something to erase the pain.

Nirvana:

“Do you like me, Adrian? Really.”

The silence stretched.

Adrian:

“You know I do. But you're Ronan's sister. We've talked about this.”

Nirvana:

“I don't care about Ronan right now. I care about you. Talk dirty to me. I don't want your polite tones tonight. I need you to take my mind off this.”

That's it. I've dropped the bombshell.

But my phone didn't buzz with a text. It started to vibrate with a video call.

My stomach did a somersault. I hit the green button.

The screen was dark on his end, but I could hear his tightly controlled breath.

"Nirvana," he said. His voice was a low, rough growl that made the hair on my arms stand up. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

"I do," I whispered to my reflection on the screen. "Please."

"Take off your shirt."

The blunt command made me gasp. But I didn't stop. I pulled my t-shirt over my head and tossed it aside, sitting there in my bra, my skin flushing under the glow of the phone.

"Now touch yourself. I want to see how much you want this."

I felt outside my own body. I followed his voice. My fingers traced the line of my neck, moving down to the edge of my panty. I closed my eyes, imagining his large hands replacing mine.

"Harder," he muttered. "I want to hear you."

I let out a soft moan, my body humming with an electricity I’d never felt before. For a few minutes, the empty studio and the sting on my cheek vanished. There was only his voice and the heat building between my legs.

"You're a little brat," he whispered, sounding close. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Then let me," I breathed.

Suddenly, the call ended.

The screen went black. I sat in the dark, gasping for air, confused and aching, until a text popped up.

I opened my laptop with shaking hands. There was an unread message from an unknown address. I clicked it, expecting a photo of Adrian.

Instead, it was a photo of my mother’s new blue handbag.

It was sitting right outside on our front steps, covered in wet red spray paint. Resting on top of the ruined leather was a single, black motorcycle glove.

I looked at the timestamp. The photo had been taken three minutes ago.

I stared at my dark bedroom window, the realization turning my blood to ice. While I was talking to Adrian in New York, someone else was already here. And it seemed like they had come to avenge me.