Chapter 102
Elara
I drew for three hours straight. My hand cramped. My back ached from bending over the easel. Charcoal dust covered my fingers, my clothes, my face. Sweat dripped down my back even though the morning was cool.
But I didn't stop.
A mom wanted a portrait of her two kids. They couldn't sit still, kept squirming and laughing. I sketched them fast, capturing their movement. The mom cried when she saw it.
An old man wanted his dog drawn. The dog was ancient, nearly blind. The man's hands shook as he held the leash. "She doesn't have much time left," he said quietly. I drew the dog with extra care. Made sure to get the gray around her muzzle, the way her ears flopped.
A teenage girl wanted a self-portrait. She sat very still, very serious. When I showed her the sketch, she smiled for the first time. "I actually look pretty," she whispered.
Each person felt important. Each sketch mattered. This wasn't art for art galleries or rich people's walls. This was art for real people. For memories. For love.
Raven handled the money and talked to people in line. She was good at it—friendly but not pushy. She'd tell them about the portraits while I worked. Show them the business cards. Answer questions.
Around eleven, I sold my first painting. It was a small oil piece I'd done last week—just an abstract study of light and shadow. A middle-aged woman in expensive clothes stopped at our booth. She looked at the painting for a long time.
"This brushwork," she said. "Where did you study?"
"Mostly self-taught," I said. That was technically true.
"How much?"
I hesitated. "One hundred fifty."
"I'll give you two hundred."
Raven's eyes went wide. I tried to keep my face neutral. "Okay. Thank you."
The woman pulled out cash. "Do you have a card? I might want to commission something larger."
I handed her one of Raven's printed cards. My hands were shaking.
After she left, Raven grabbed my arm. "Two hundred dollars! For one painting!"
"I know."
"Elara, you're actually good at this. Like, really good."
I felt something warm in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or just relief that this was working.
---
By noon, my wrist was on fire. I'd drawn fourteen portraits and sold two more small paintings. People kept coming. The line didn't stop.
Then I saw Emily.
She was walking toward our booth with three other girls from St. Valerius. My stomach dropped. I set down my charcoal.
Emily stopped at the table. She looked at the sketches, the paintings, the business cards. Then she looked at me.
"Hey, Elara."
"Hi."
The silence stretched. The other girls stood behind Emily, watching.
"We saw Raven's Instagram post," Emily said. "We wanted to come support you."
I didn't know what to say. Support felt like a foreign concept. At St. Valerius, I was the girl everyone whispered about. The foster kid. The scandal. The one who didn't belong.
One of the other girls stepped forward. I recognized her—she'd been at the hospital when we confronted Madison. "These are beautiful," she said, picking up one of my sample sketches. "You're really talented."
Another girl was staring at my small paintings. She frowned. "This style... it looks familiar. There's a painting at the Chelsea Gallery. The one everyone talks about. 'Broken Wings.' It has Sloane Kennedy's signature on it, but the brushwork looks just like this."
My throat went tight. Raven glanced at me.
"Maybe we have similar influences," I said. My voice came out steady.
The girl looked at me for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Maybe."
Emily spoke up. "We want portraits. One for each of us. However much they cost."
"Thirty for basic, fifty for detailed."
"Detailed," Emily said. The other girls nodded.
I drew them one by one. They sat patiently, talking quietly while they waited. They didn't seem to mind the wait. Didn't complain about the price. They treated me like a real artist. Like someone worth respecting.
When I finished the last portrait, Emily handed me two hundred dollars. "Keep the change. For supplies or whatever."
"Emily—"
"It's okay." She lowered her voice so the others couldn't hear. "I know things have been hard for you at school. Victoria's been posting about you in the group chat. Saying you're desperate, selling art on street corners because you're broke." She paused. "A lot of us think she's wrong. We think what you're doing is brave."
My eyes stung. I blinked hard.
"Also," Emily added, "someone in the chat asked if you're the same artist who painted 'Broken Wings.' The painting at Chelsea. People are starting to notice the similarities."
She said it casually, but I heard the question underneath. The doubt about Sloane's genius. The possibility that maybe the truth was something else.
"Thank you for coming," I said.
Emily smiled. "Keep going. Don't let them stop you."
After they left, I had to sit down. My hands were shaking again. But this time it wasn't from fatigue.
Raven handed me a bottle of water. "You have friends there. Real friends."
I took a sip. Thought about Emily's words. About the other girls who'd come to support me. About the people in line who just wanted good art, who didn't care about my last name or my family drama.
Maybe there was hope. Not much. But some.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Maybe I do."
---
We worked until four. By then, I couldn't feel my fingers. Charcoal was embedded under my nails. My back screamed every time I moved. But we'd sold eleven portraits and three more paintings.
Raven counted the money while I packed up the easel. Her hands were shaking.
"Eleven portraits at forty dollars average... that's four hundred forty. Three paintings... six hundred fifty." She looked up at me. Her eyes were wet. "Total is one thousand ninety dollars. Minus the sixty-dollar booth fee and twenty for subway fare... we made one thousand ten dollars."
I stared at the cash in her hands. I'd earned that. With my own work. My own skill. Not because of the Vane name. Not because Julian arranged something. Not because I traded pieces of myself.
"Elara." Raven's voice cracked. "This is real money. This could cover rent. Food. Grandma's medication co-pays."
"We split it," I said. "Seventy-thirty. You worked just as hard—"
"No way. This was your art."
"Raven—"
A car engine cut through our argument. A black Maserati pulled up to the curb.
All the warmth drained from my body.
Julian stepped out. He was wearing a charcoal suit and designer sunglasses. People on the sidewalk turned to look. They always did. He had that effect—the kind of presence that made crowds part automatically.
He walked toward our booth. His eyes swept over the folding table, the scattered charcoal, the business cards with my fake name.
"Pack up your things," he said. His voice was quiet. Cold. "Get in the car."
Raven stepped in front of me. "She's not going anywhere with you."
Julian didn't even glance at her. "Elara. Now."
I stayed in my chair. My legs felt like water. "I'm done for the day anyway. I was about to leave."
"I'm not asking." His voice dropped lower. "Get. In. The. Car."
"Why?" I looked up at him. Met his eyes even though I couldn't see them behind the sunglasses. "Because you don't like seeing me work? Because it embarrasses you?"
His jaw clenched. "You know exactly why. Do you have any idea how many people posted photos of you today? Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. Do you understand what that does to the family reputation?"
"I don't care about the family reputation."
"Well, I do." He stepped closer. "This ends now. You're coming with me."
He reached for my arm. I jerked back.
Raven moved between us. "Don't touch her."
Atlas appeared from the driver's seat. He stood behind Raven, blocking her path but not touching her. Just presence. Just threat.
Julian grabbed my wrist. His grip was firm. Not painful, but impossible to break.
"Let go," I said.
He didn't.
"Julian, please—"
"We'll discuss this in the car." He started pulling me toward the Maserati.
I dug my heels in. It didn't matter. He was stronger. The people around us were watching now. Phones out. Recording.
I looked back at Raven. Her face was pale. Scared. "Call me," I mouthed.
Then Julian opened the car door and practically pushed me inside. The door slammed. Locked.
Through the tinted window, I watched Raven standing alone with all our supplies. Emily and her friends had stopped on the sidewalk, staring.
The car pulled away.