Chapter 104
Elara
The night air in the Bronx pressed against my window like something alive—police sirens wailing in the distance, a couple arguing in rapid-fire Spanish downstairs, the low thrum of Yuki's music bleeding through the wall.
I lay on my narrow bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling that looked like continents I'd never visit, my body exhausted but my mind refusing to let go of the day.
I should have been asleep. I should have been planning next weekend's work, calculating how many portraits I'd need to sell to pay back the medical bills, to build enough of a cushion that I could finally stop looking over my shoulder. Instead, my hand reached for my phone on the nightstand, fingers moving with muscle memory I wished I could erase.
The screen glowed in the darkness. 3:47 AM. I unlocked it and opened my photo gallery, knowing even as I did it that this was a mistake, that I was picking at a wound that needed to heal. But some part of me—the part that had loved him for three years, the part that had believed in fairy tales and second chances—needed to say goodbye properly.
The first photo loaded slowly, as if the phone itself was reluctant to show me. Three years ago. Fifteen-year-old me standing in front of Blackwood Estate, the Gothic Revival mansion looming behind us. I was wearing a thrift-store coat from Goodwill, two sizes too big, my shoulders hunched inward like I was trying to make myself smaller, disappear into the fabric. My eyes held that deer-in-headlights look, the expression of someone who knew they'd walked into a trap but couldn't see the way out yet.
Julian stood beside me, one hand resting on my shoulder—protective, or so I'd thought at the time. He was smiling at the camera, that polite, practiced smile he wore for Mr. Vane Senior's benefit. I remembered the weight of his hand, how it had felt like an anchor and a promise. "You're safe now," his touch seemed to say. "You belong here."
I'd believed him.
I scrolled down, my chest tightening with each swipe. Photo after photo of stolen moments—Julian's profile as he worked in his study, the lamplight casting shadows under his cheekbones. His hand wrapped around a coffee cup, fingers long and elegant against the ceramic. His back as he stood in the garden, phone pressed to his ear, completely unaware I was watching. Thanksgiving dinner, his champagne glass raised in a toast, his expression relaxed in a way it never was around me anymore.
Every photo was evidence of my pathetic obsession, proof that I'd spent years documenting a man who barely knew I existed.
The images shifted as I scrolled—me standing closer to him in each shot, my smiles growing more natural, my posture less defensive. Christmas morning, me in the cheap sweater Mamá had bought from Target, Julian's arm draped casually over my shoulders like I really was his sister. I'd saved that photo as my phone background for six months.
Then came the turning point.
The photo was professionally composed, obviously staged. Sloane stood on the marble steps of Blackwood Estate in a white Max Mara cashmere coat that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, her fingers intertwined with Julian's. Early spring sunlight bathed them in golden light, making them look like figures from a classical oil painting—the kind of perfect couple that belonged in museums and glossy magazines, not real life.
I'd been the one holding the camera. Victoria had shoved her phone at me with a smirk: "You're decent at this. Take a few shots of them."
I'd taken thirty-seven photos that day. Deleted all but one.
After that, the gallery thinned out dramatically. The last few images were selfies taken here in the garage apartment—me against the graffiti-covered wall, the rusted metal pipes visible through the window behind me, the gray Bronx sky pressing down. In those photos, my face had changed. I was thinner, sharper somehow, the softness worn away by months of surviving. But my eyes were clearer. More awake.
I stared at the screen until my vision blurred, then backed out of the gallery and opened my message drafts. The folder I'd hidden from myself, buried deep in the app where I wouldn't have to see it every time I opened my phone.
Dozens of messages. All unsent. All addressed to Julian.
"Julian, I miss you. When are you coming home?" —Three years ago, deleted before I could hit send.
"I saw you on Bloomberg today. You looked tired. Are you eating well?" —Two years ago, typed at 2 AM and deleted by dawn.
"I painted something for you. Can I show you?" —Last year, written after finishing a piece I'd been certain would make him see me differently. Deleted.
"Why do you always choose her?" —One month ago, written after he'd left because Sloane needed him. Deleted within minutes.
Each message was a monument to my own weakness, evidence of every night I'd broken down and reached for him, only to delete the words before sunrise. I'd never sent any of them.
Because even in my most desperate moments, I'd known the truth—these messages were too honest, too raw, too much. I wasn't his sister. I wasn't his anything. He had no obligation to respond to my pathetic emotional needs.
My finger hovered over the trash icon. One tap and they'd all disappear, every unsent confession, every midnight plea, every moment of weakness I'd carefully hidden from the world.
I tapped it.
The confirmation dialog appeared: "Are you sure you want to delete these drafts?"
I didn't hesitate. "Delete All."
The screen blinked. The folder emptied. Three years of unspoken love vanished into the digital void like it had never existed at all.
I should have felt relief. Instead, I felt hollow.
My thumb moved on its own, opening Instagram, typing "Sloane Kennedy" into the search bar before my rational mind could stop it. This was self-harm, pure and simple, but I couldn't seem to help myself. Maybe I needed to see it clearly, needed to understand exactly what I'd been competing against all this time.
Her profile loaded: @sloane.jv. The username made my stomach clench. "JV" for Julian Vane. She'd branded herself with his initials like a possession, like a promise. 127K followers. Verified blue checkmark. The bio read: "We are each other's exception."
I remembered Julian saying something similar to me once, years ago, his hand ruffling my hair like I was a child: "You're an exception, Elara. You're different from the others."