One day, headlines blew up the entire internet.
[Painter Anya Heffernan’s latest piece, inspired by a mysterious nude actress, stuns the auction world!]
Only then did the fragile calm I had been clinging to completely shatter.
…
The woman in the painting was half-lying on the bed, her skin fair as snow, completely exposed. Her hair hid her face, but the familiar curves of her body—and the mole on her shoulder and neck that only I have—all silently declared to the world that the figure in the painting was me.
The only person who could have gotten hold of my nude photos and let Anya use my body for attention was Erving.
My phone shook uncontrollably in my hand. In just one hour, the hashtag [#MandyNudePortraitModel] had skyrocketed to the top of the trending list. The comments poured in like a tidal wave, full of crude, vulgar speculation.
Those same people who once praised my elegance were now digging through my private life with filthy words.
My face went pale. Pain twisted my chest until it felt impossible to breathe. I stumbled out of the house and drove straight to Erving’s company.
When I pushed open the office door, Anya was sitting on the couch, pouting proudly.