CHAPTER 1: What Is Peace?

The screen of my phone was the only thing lighting up my dark bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the photo I’d just uploaded to my art profile. It was a painting I’d finished at three 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.

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

I watched the notifications start to roll in. People loved the "tortured artist" vibe, even if they didn't know the torture was coming from the woman passed out in the room below mine.

*Peace is having enough money to never look at a price tag,* the first comment said. I let out a short, dry laugh.

If money bought peace, I wouldn't feel like my chest was being crushed every time I took a breath.

I had been famous in the art world since I was eleven. I had made plenty of money, but I never saw any of it. My mother made sure of that.

A sudden, heavy crash from downstairs made me freeze. Then came the music. The loud, thumping bass of a 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 walked out of my room. The smell hit me halfway down the stairs; stale gin and cheap cigar smoke. My mother, Katerina, was in the middle of the living room, swaying in a silk robe that had seen better days. Her hair was a mess of blonde tangles and her eyes were bloodshot. I sighed.

"What are you doing up there all day, Nirvana?" she slurred, looking at me with wide, glassy eyes.

"It’s morning, Mom," I said, my voice felt tired. "And you’re drunk already."

"It’s New Orleans, nobody cares what time it is" she said, waving a glass around. ".Did you check the college site? The admissions?"

I walked into the kitchen and started the coff*e, trying to ignore 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 had saved in my drawer."

She laughed, a sharp, unpleasant sound. "I didn't take it. I invested it. Besides, you can just ask Chris for a loan. He’s obsessed with you."

I turned around sharply to look at her. "Chris and I broke up weeks ago. I’ve told you that every single day. I’m not asking him for anything."

She rolled her eyes and started heading for the stairs, nearly tripping on the rug. "Well, sell a painting then. Sell that one with the screaming lady. Some idiot will pay a fortune for it."

I watched her disappear up the stairs, feeling a familiar weight in my stomach. She didn't see my work as art. She saw it as a way to pay for her next bottle. My throat tightened and my eyes blurred with tears.

I couldn't stay in the house. I spent most of the day at my friend Lucy’s place. Her boyfriend, Jesse, was there too. He was a high school classmate who always seemed a bit too interested in what I was doing, but today he was just being his usual self, bringing over snacks and making jokes.

For a few hours, I almost felt like a normal nineteen-year-old. We talked about movies and music, and I managed to push the thought of my mother and the college rejection out of my head.

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

The house was silent when I walked in. That was usually a bad sign. I walked up to my room, but as soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong. My desk was empty. My closet was hanging open.

I ran into the small room I used as a studio. I 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, everything. She had cleared it out.

I knew exactly what she had done. There was an underground dealer in the French Quarter who bought "unclaimed" art for cash, no questions asked.

I sat down on the floor, the emptiness of the room echoing in my head. I didn't even have the energy to cry. I just felt hollow and empty. I wanted to cry but I couldn't.

When I heard the front door open downstairs, I didn't wait. I marched down the steps, my heart pounding in my ears. My mother was standing in the foyer, clutching a brand-new, bright blue designer handbag to her chest. She looked up at me and gave me a wide, fake smile.

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

"Where are my paintings, Mom?" I asked, my voice was dangerously 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. I felt a hot surge of rage finally break through the numbness. "That was my portfolio! That was my way out of this house!"

She stepped toward me, her face hardening. Before I could react, her hand swung out and caught me across the face. The slap was loud, the sting immediate and sharp. I felt a tear slip 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 in her bedroom.

I went back to my room and sat on the floor, leaning my head against the bed. I felt like I was drowning. I reached for my phone and opened my messages. I didn't go to Lucy or call my brother, Ronan.

Ronan was in New York, and every time I complained, he told me to just hold on a little longer. He didn't understand how bad it was getting. He was just lucky he wasn't borne of my my mother.

Instead, I messaged the only person who felt real to me. Adrian.

He was my brother's best friend. He was older, lived in New York, and we had been talking for months. It started with art, but lately, it had become 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 at the top of the screen.

**Adrian:**

*What did she do?*

I told him. I told him about the paintings, the bag, and 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.*

**Nirvana:**

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

I sat there, my heart racing. I knew I shouldn't say it. He was off-limits. He was forbidden. But the rage and the sadness were making me reckless. I just wanted something that will take my mind away. This pain was too much, I wanted to feel something else.

**Nirvana:**

*Do you like me, Adrian? Really.*

The silence lasted longer this time.

**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 need you to take my mind off this.*

My phone didn't buzz with a text. Instead, it started to vibrate in my hand. A video call. My stomach did a somersault. I only hesitated for a split second before I hit the green button.

The screen was dark on his end. I couldn't see his face, but I could hear his breathing. It was heavy and controlled.

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

"I do," I whispered, staring at my own reflection on the screen. "Please."

"Take off your shirt."

The command was so blunt it made me gasp softly. But I didn't stop. I reached down and pulled my t-shirt over my head, tossing it aside. I sat 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 like I was outside of 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, rough hands replacing mine.

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

I let out a soft moan, my body humming with a kind of electricity I’d never felt before. For a few minutes, the empty studio and my mother’s slap didn't matter. There was only his voice and the heat building between my legs.

"You're a little brat," he whispered, his voice sounding closer now. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Then let me," I breathed.

Suddenly, the call ended. The screen went black, leaving me sitting in the dark, gasping for air. I stared at the phone, confused and aching, until a text popped up.

**Adrian:**

*Check your email. Now.*

I opened my laptop with shaking hands. There was a message from an address I didn't recognize. I clicked it, expecting a file or a picture. Instead, it was a photo of my mother’s new blue handbag, the same one she was showing off earlier.

It was sitting right outside, covered in red spray paint, with a single black leather glove resting on top of it.

I looked at the timestamp. The photo had been taken three minutes ago. Right outside my front door.

I looked at the dark window of my bedroom, realizing for the first time that while I was talking to Adrian in New York, someone else was already here. And it seemed like they had come to avenge me.