Chapter 1

The world believed the bond between Lily and Master Thomas was something pure, a connection that went beyond simple love or romance.

For years, the story was told in art magazines and whispered in galleries: the reclusive genius sculptor, hidden away on his mountain, and the devoted apprentice who was his hands, his shadow, and his muse.

Their partnership was held up as a monument to artistic dedication, a relationship forged in clay and stone, more enduring than any fleeting passion.

Lily gave everything to that monument.

For ten years, she lived in the cold, dusty studio, a place that smelled of wet earth and turpentine.

She woke before the sun to prepare the clay, her hands always a map of fine cracks and dried grit.

She sharpened his tools until the edges were perfect.

She managed the apprentices, the supplies, the household, and the silence.

She sacrificed her youth, her own art, and any chance of a life outside the mountain's shadow.

She did it all for him, for his art, believing she was the steady foundation upon which his legacy was built.

We, the other apprentices, saw her not just as our senior but as the true keeper of the studio's soul.

Then, one Tuesday, the monument cracked.

Master Thomas called us all to the main workshop.

He was an old man now, his famous hands starting to tremble, but his ego was as solid as ever.

He stood there, beaming, and next to him was a woman who didn't belong.

Her name was Serena.

She was all bright colors and loud jewelry, her perfume a chemical assault in our world of natural scents.

She looked fragile and expensive, a city creature completely out of place among the stone dust and unfinished statues.

"My dear students," Master Thomas announced, his voice booming with a joy that felt hollow to us. "I want you to meet Serena. She has brought a new fire to my old heart, a new vision for my art. She is my new muse."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air before delivering the final blow.

"And she has agreed to become my wife."

The silence in the room was heavy, thick with disbelief and a shared, unspoken anger.

We all turned to look at Lily.

She was the one he was replacing, the one he was discarding.

He wasn't just taking a new wife; he was publicly declaring that her decade of devotion meant nothing, that she could be so easily swapped for a flamboyant stranger who had never touched a block of clay in her life.

His reason-this "new fire"-felt like an insult, a cheap excuse that cheapened everything they had built.

A wave of sympathy and outrage washed over us.

We were a small, tight-knit group, and Lily was our anchor.

We felt her humiliation as if it were our own.

We watched her, waiting for the tears, the outburst, the heartbroken accusation.

We were ready to stand with her, to protest this injustice.

We wanted to yell at the old master for his blindness and his cruelty.

But Lily did nothing.

Her face remained perfectly still, her posture unchanged.

She looked at Master Thomas, then at the garish woman beside him, and offered a small, almost imperceptible nod.

"I see," she said, her voice even and calm, without a single tremor. "Congratulations, Master."

She seemed completely unfazed, a statue of stoicism amidst the emotional wreckage.

It was a performance of such control that it was more unsettling than any scream would have been.