Amber's mother was waiting when she got home, her former art professor's gaze dissecting Amber's latest cityscape, propped on the kitchen table. "Your perspective's improving," she said, her voice cool, clinical. "But it lacks ambition. Ethan Stewart's organizing a portfolio workshop. You should go. He's serious about art, Amber."
Amber bristled, her hands clenching her bag's strap. "I'm serious too," she said, her voice sharp, defiance flaring.
"Not like him," her mother said, her tone clipped, final. "You need connections, not just talent. Don't waste your potential."
The words stung, a familiar wound reopened. Amber nodded, not wanting a fight, but her chest ached as she retreated to her room. She texted Lena about the workshop, hoping for backup, but Lena's reply was cryptic, a single line: Ethan's not what he seems. Watch out.
Confused, Amber agreed to meet Ethan for coffee to discuss the workshop, hoping to appease her mother and quiet her own doubts. The coffee shop was crowded, students laughing over lattes, the air thick with roasted beans and chatter. Ethan was charming, his smile polished, his advice sharp—too sharp. "Your use of light's emotional," he said, leaning forward, his eyes appraising. "But it needs precision. You're almost there, Winters." Every compliment carried a critique, a subtle jab that left Amber drained, her confidence fraying.
She didn't notice Charles across the street, helping his mother with groceries, until it was too late. He saw her with Ethan, his expression darkening, a flash of hurt before he looked away. Later, a classmate's gossip reached him, twisted and cruel: "Amber's on a date with Stewart." Charles's texts to Amber turned curt, one-word replies—Okay, _Sure_—that cut deeper than silence, each ping a small betrayal.
Lena, hearing the rumor, cornered Amber at school, her eyes glinting with mischief. "You and Ethan? Didn't see that coming," she said, her voice teasing, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.
"It wasn't a date," Amber snapped, frustration boiling over, her bag heavy on her shoulder. "Just talking about art."
"Sure," Lena said, her smile sly, her fingers drumming on her sketchbook. "But Charles thinks otherwise. He's jealous, you know. Unstable."
Amber's chest tightened, her anger flaring. She wanted to explain to Charles, to undo the misunderstanding, but he avoided her in class, his sketchbook a barrier, his eyes fixed on his work. Ethan, meanwhile, lingered near their table, his confidence grating, his smile too smooth. When he left, Amber noticed a sketch missing from Charles's pile—a quick study of hands, fluid and alive, gone from his stack.
"Did you see that?" she asked Charles, her voice low, urgent.
He shook his head, but his eyes were wary, a flicker of suspicion. "Doesn't matter," he said, his tone flat, but his fingers tightened on his pencil.
It did matter, Amber thought, her heart racing. She glanced at Lena, who was sketching furiously, her expression unreadable, her eyes flicking to Ethan's retreating figure. The critique wall had a new note, in blue ink: Thieves hide among friends. Amber's pulse quickened, a chill creeping up her spine. Had Ethan taken the sketch? Or was Lena playing a deeper game, her smile a mask for something darker?