Shatter The Golden Prodigys Crown

My roommate was the kind of genius artist who blooms early, dazzling everyone.

She came from an old-money New England art dynastyher father, a powerful figure on the Board of the Met, her mother, a former starlet with a permanent glow. She had been four years old when she first held a brush, ten when her first solo exhibition sold out in Chelsea, and by eighteen, her Instagram following rivaled a pop stars.

So, when I reported her to the schools Ethics Committee for stealing my winning entry, everyonefrom our department head to the campus security guardthought I was delusional. A classic case of the untalented underdog cracking under pressure.

I refused her hush money, trying to claw back my integrity, my truth. In return, she slammed the heel of her hand into my chest and sent me tumbling down the marble staircase.

In the final, fading moments, I heard her voice, sharp and cold as shattered glass.

An orphan like you, with nothing but hand-me-down dreams? A joke.

When I woke up, the familiar, stale scent of our dorm room air conditioning filled my lungs, and the clock on the bedside table read: September 14th. Two days before the submission deadline.

This time, I didn't hesitate. I walked straight to my easel and slashed the painting to shreds.

Now, it was her turn to panic.

1

The first time I stood up to her, after she'd won the Kestrel Prize with my canvas, the internet turned me into a villain overnight.

It was all because of who Audrey Thorne was. The golden girl. Born into that rarefied air, she seemed to embody everything the art world adored. She was the one all the other girls at Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) wanted to be.

No one, from her devoted fans to the casual onlookers, could believe that she, the luminous, gifted artist, would ever stoop to plagiarize. She was too good, too pure for such a tawdry scandal.

To make matters worse, Audrey had used her acceptance speech to call for kindness, softly urging her fans not to "attack" me. "Sienna is a talented but clearly troubled soul," she'd murmured, her voice laced with that perfected, gentle sadness.

While the comments section flooded with praise for her beauty and "noble heart," the digital detectives dug up my past. Orphan. Raised in a small-town group home. Didn't even start oil painting until high school on a teacher's advice.

The narrative solidified instantly.

"Shes got to be unstable. Why would someone like the great Audrey Thorne need her work?"

"A desperate clout chaser. Going for the 'black-and-red' routetrying to build a career on controversy. Pathetic."

"Poor Audrey. She has to live with a toxic parasite like that. The school should just expel her for this character assassination!"

The insults and fabrications hit me like a dense, driving rain.

I sought help from our academic advisor and the other two roommates, Harper and Chloe, begging them to set the record straight. After all, they had seen me hunched over that easel for months.

But I didn't know what kind of deal Audrey had cut with them. They weren't just unwilling to help; they were actively turning the screws. They did a joint Instagram Live, putting on a show of concern, tearfully urging me to "see the light."

"Just apologize, Sienna. Admit you were mistaken. Audrey is a kind person; she said she'll forgive you and drop it," Harper wept into the camera.

I couldn't do it. How could I confess to a lie I didn't tell? The internet remembers everything. If I admitted to "slander," that scarlet letter would brand me forever.

The public didn't see it that way, especially after Audrey leaked screenshots from her private fan group. The "evidence" showed her discussing creative ideas that seemed to align perfectly with the winning piece's concept. Even I hadn't realized how meticulously shed planned this from the first day I laid down paint.

A furious mob descended on the school's social media, demanding my expulsion. On campus, students pointed and whispered, their eyes slicing me to pieces.

Worst of all, the most extreme Audrey fans found the address of the old group homeThe Havenwhere I'd grown up. They splashed the main door with foul-smelling red paint and hurled abuse at the Director, Mrs. Sterling, and the younger kids.

They screamed that the home raised "bad seeds," and I was the proof: a "morally bankrupt trash" of a former resident.

I could handle the attacks aimed at me, but The Haven had done nothing wrong. They didn't deserve to be dragged into this firestorm.

What I couldn't wrap my head around was why Audrey, with her innate talent, would need to steal anyone's art.

The answer, I realized, was hiding in the last three years of dorm life.

The brilliant child prodigy was gone.

Fame and early worship don't just elevate; they can also corrode the will. For years, Audrey had been too busy attending exclusive parties, filming perfectly filtered vlogs, and signing endorsement deals for luxury brands. She hadn't spent more than a handful of dedicated days in the studio all semester.

She couldn't even replicate the quality of her own earlier work, let alone generate a new masterpiece.

I cornered her one afternoon, warning her that I would call the police if she didn't end the charade.

Audrey threw her head back and laugheda high, brittle sound. "Oh, stop. Name your price, Sienna."

Shedding her gentle fa?ade, she spoke with a sickening superiority. "Having your little sketch crowned with my name? That's your biggest break, kid."

"Keep fighting, and I have a hundred different ways to make you disappear."

I was done arguing. I pulled out my phone.

That actionthat simple gesture of defiancewas what truly enraged her. She lunged, shoving me back with a shocking violence.

My head cracked against the corner of a step, and immediately, the slick, copper scent of blood filled the air. My legs were numb. As the world swam into a hazy, darkening canvas, I tilted my head and saw Audrey standing above me on the landing, arms crossed, her expression a mask of cold disdain.

An orphan like you, with nothing but hand-me-down dreams? A joke.

A storm of fury and profound injustice closed my eyes.

The next time I opened them, I was back. The clock on the wall was mocking me: September 14th. Two days before the submission deadline.

2

Sienna, hows your Kestrel entry coming along?

You know you cant slack off. If you win, youll get the automatic Masters placementno GRE, no portfolio review. Its huge.

Just focus, sweetie. I know you can do it.

The earnest, concerned voice washed over me. I flinched, turning toward the sound.

Audrey Thorne stood before me, her smile a perfect, radiant curve. She held out a pink, meticulously crafted strawberry tart. I grabbed this for you. No pressure, just a little fuel for the final push.

I stared, frozen. I couldnt reconcile this gentle presence with the face Id seen twisted in sneering cruelty a moment before. Wait, where was I? One second I was dying on a cold staircase; the next, I was back in our cramped, brightly-lit dorm room.

Before I could process the terrifying whiplash, two other voices chimed in.

Ugh, hello, catch it, Riser. That was Harper, always snide.

Seriously, no manners. Typical. Didnt they teach you how to accept a gift at the home? Chloe finished the sentence, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

Harper and Chloe had made it a point to freeze me out since they found out I was a scholarship kid from a group home. It wasn't physical bullying, but their words were always barbed, meant to inflict a thousand tiny cuts. I usually shot back, refusing to be their doormat, but we'd kept up this toxic cohabitation for three years.

This time, I ignored them.

I launched myself off my chair, knocking the strawberry tart and the hand that held it aside as I bolted into the bathroom.

Behind me, I heard Harpers shriek.

Oh my god, Audrey, are you okay?

The hell, Sienna! What is your problem? Did she just assault you in a daytime seizure? Chloe raged.

Audrey sucked in a theatrical gasp of air, but her reply was soft, forgiving. Its fine, girls. Sienna is probably just stressed about the deadline. There are so many of us submitting this year. Lets not make it harder for her.

Same old Audrey. Always the martyr, the perfect, understanding friend. My past life screamed at me: She is a wolf in silk clothing.

Chloes voice rose to a furious pitch. I swear, shes just jealous of you! Youre so nice to her, and this is how she repays you? She needs to apologize, right now! This is not over!

The two of them stomped off their beds, heading straight for the bathroom door, ready to drag me out and force a confession.

But I had already locked it.

I leaned against the sink, ignoring the banging and the muffled shouts. I looked into the mirror: my face was full, alive, bright. I reached up and touched my forehead. No blood. No sickening, deep gash.

I clenched my fist and drove my nail into the sensitive flesh of my palm. The pain was immediate, sharp, and undeniable.

I was back. I had a chance.

The piece of art had not yet been submitted. I hadn't been cyberbullied into oblivion. The Haven had not been vandalized.

The rhythmic pounding on the door intensified. Sienna, what is it? Did I do something wrong? Please, lets talk. Dont bottle things up.

If I hadn't seen the truth, I might have been moved. But now, my only thought was a cold, sharp resolve: Audrey Thorne would never climb to the top on the back of my work again.

After a moment, I opened the door.

Audrey instantly moved in, her eyes wide with manufactured concern. Harper and Chloe hovered behind her, shooting daggers at me.

I walked past all three of them, straight to my desk. I picked up my utility knife, flipped back the protective drop cloth, and, in a single, decisive motion, sliced my finished masterpiece to ribbons.

Silence. Shock.

Then, Audrey let out a sound so sharp it felt like a shriek.

Sienna! What is wrong with you?

She clutched her hair. Her voice was too loud, too distraught. That painting was incredible! Youyou just ruined it! The deadline is in two days! What am I going to submit?!

The word hung in the air: submit.

In her panic, shed forgotten the script. I had known she planned to steal it, but seeing her claim it so naturally, so instantly, made my blood run cold. I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

Its my painting, Audrey. Im the one who decides whats wrong with it. And what you submit is none of my business.

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