My Boyfriend Shot to Fame by Forging a Painting of Me Wearing Nothing

Hudson stood right before my eyes, yet I couldn’t clearly see who he really was anymore. His face twisted with malice, a mocking sneer tugging at his lips, and his eyes were filled with smug confidence—the look of a petty man reveling in his moment of triumph.

He gripped my wrist so tightly it felt like my bones might shatter. My hand hurt, but my heart hurt even more.

I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. The sound echoed through the quiet second floor, drawing a few curious heads peeking up from the studio below.

Hudson snapped out of it and, in a fit of anger, seemed ready to hit me back. However, his eyes locked with the onlookers on the staircase, and he froze, clenching his fist and lowering it as I walked away without looking back.

I drove back to my rented apartment and threw all his belongings out the door.

I once believed we would get married, that nothing between us mattered. Meals, rent, utilities—what didn’t I pay for? Even a bottle of water would go to my shared payment account!

Nevertheless, Hudson had the audacity to think all this was just how things should be. He thought our contributions were equal. His talent didn’t match his arrogance. If he wanted fame, his only choice was to rely on gimmicks like nudity. Otherwise, with his skills, entering a ceramic painting competition would be like a drop of water falling into the ocean—completely unnoticed, buried without a trace.

I didn’t want to stay in this apartment that held so many memories of us. After tossing out his things, I returned to the second floor of the studio, locked the door, and began creating.

Emotions fueled inspiration, so I picked up my carving tool and started working on a porcelain piece.

As usual, I set my phone nearby to record the entire creative process. The phone vibrated continuously, but I didn’t notice. I was completely immersed in my work.

Unlike pencil drawings on paper, ceramic art leaves no room for correction. Once you start carving, you must focus entirely. Clay is both hard and fragile—one careless move can chip it, leaving uneven lines that ruin the final result.

It wasn’t until the first rays of the next morning’s sunlight crept through the window that I realized how much time had passed.

The piece was complete. I covered it with a white dust cloth, stopped the recording, and uploaded it as a private post visible only to followers on TikTok. Then, I locked the private studio up and left, forgetting that someone else had a key to this room.

A week later, I brought my work to the 56th Ceramic Painting Competition.

From the moment I entered the venue, murmurs and glances followed me, clinging to me like a sticky film. I ignored them, removing the dust cloth from my porcelain painting.

The whispers grew louder, peaking just as a woman stepped forward. She wore a dark purple gown with a plunging neckline, designed to reveal an alluring view.

“Piper, you’ve gone too far,” she cried out. “Was stealing my boyfriend not enough? Now you’ve plagiarized my work! This is my baby, my blood and sweat!”

Tears streamed down her face, each word dripping with sorrow, tugging at the hearts of the audience. Disdainful and scornful gazes bore into me.

Her boyfriend? Hudson?

Suddenly, I remembered the voice on the phone that day. My eyes wandered to the mole on her chest—a strikingly beautiful one. The mole was in the exact same place as the one on the figure Hudson had painted.

This woman was Hudson’s ex, the one he had never let go of.

As her sobbing words hung in the air, another voice joined in, “Piper, I’m already with you, so please don’t make things difficult for Kelly.”

Hudson pushed his way through the crowd, standing beside Kelly. He placed a supportive arm around her waist, steadying her as she feigned collapse.

“Even though you’re my girlfriend, I can’t cover for your plagiarism. I can’t watch you fall deeper into this pit. Apologize to her now!” Hudson, speaking as my so-called boyfriend, publicly condemned me for plagiarizing Kelly’s work.

Their stories corroborated each other perfectly, and the crowd quickly sided with them.

Just as the judges were about to disqualify me, someone called out, “Wait.”

The crowd parted, and a figure stepped forward.