Shattered Dreams, Stolen Lives

From the back cover

The world first saw the crash.

A cherry-red sports car, crumpled like a can, embedded in the ornate gates of the prestigious Blackwood Art Gallery.

Inside, I was slumped over the wheel, a faint, serene smile on my lips that made no sense.

Gallery staff rushed out, their faces pale, trying to pull my eyelids shut.

They wouldn't stay closed.

My wide, vacant eyes stared out, refusing to be silenced.

The police called it a tragic accident.

The powerful Blackwood family issued a brief statement, an attempt to smother the truth with their influence.

But truth has a way of finding cracks.

An intern leaked my autopsy report: tongue surgically removed, knees bruised with calluses, stomach filled not with food, but with gnawed animal bones and phlegm.

My death became a national nightmare.

People raged online, demanding .

I watched as a wispy, translucent soul.

Dr. Alex Peterson, the medical examiner, refused to be silenced, seeing past the official story.

"This wasn't an accident," he said.

"She delivered a message."

Pressure from city hall mounted, ordering him to close the case.

Then, something impossible happened.

The stitches meant to keep my eyes closed snapped, and they opened again, a silent act of defiance.

The internet erupted.

My spirit couldn't rest.

People began digging, finding old articles about "muse-slaves," human beings treated as living art objects.

It felt terrifyingly real.

Dr. Peterson defied his superiors, ruling my death a homicide.

With public outcry, a full investigation began.

But every lead was a dead end: no wallet, no phone, disabled GPS, conveniently malfunctioning cameras.

I longed to scream names, places.

The public's patience wore thin, protestors demanding answers.

Then, a radical idea emerged: a "Memory-Reader," a device to access the last images in my brain.

Against all odds, the authorities agreed.

My body, cryogenically preserved, was placed on a stage.

The Blackwood family sat in the front row, an obscenity of feigned innocence.

Among them, Michael, my brother, with a troubled look in his eyes.

Dr. Peterson fitted a chrome helmet to my head.

The monitors flickered to life.

Static.

Chloe Blackwood's dismissive voice echoed, "What a waste of time. This is boring."

But then, a jolt.

The static cleared.

The world was inside my head.

A dimly lit room.

My parents and a shadowy figure.

"She is the price," my mother said, emotionless.

"A daughter for a pigment. We can always have another."

A collective gasp filled the auditorium.

The truth began to unfold.