Chapter 106
Julian
"That's not—I would never—"
"Don't." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "I'm not stupid, Victoria. I know exactly what you two were doing. What I want to know is why you thought it was a good idea to waste my time with manufactured emergencies when you should be focused on not becoming a family embarrassment."
Tears welled in Victoria's eyes, but these looked genuine—tears of shame and fear rather than manipulation. "I was just trying to help Sloane. She's worried about Elara. We all are. That girl is—"
"That girl," I interrupted, my voice dropping to something dangerous, "is none of your concern. Your concern is passing your classes and not making our family look like a joke. If you fail your midterms, if Harvard rejects you, you won't be able to blame Elara or anyone else. It'll be on you."
I set my glass down with enough force to make Victoria flinch. "Now get out. Go study. And tell Sloane that the next time she needs something, she should tell me the truth instead of performing for an audience."
Victoria fled.
I stood alone in my office, my reflection staring back at me from the darkened window. Outside, rain lashed against the glass, distorting the lights of the estate grounds into abstract blurs. I looked like a stranger to myself—jaw tight, eyes hard, shoulders rigid with tension I couldn't release.
I'd left Elara on a street corner for this. For Sloane's performance and Victoria's games.
My phone buzzed. Atlas, with a folder of social media posts about Elara's street art booth. I opened it with a sense of dread, expecting more ammunition for why I'd been right to pull her away from Brooklyn Flea.
Instead, I found dozens of posts from satisfied customers, amateur photographers, art students. Photos of Elara bent over her sketchpad, completely absorbed in her work, her face more peaceful than I'd seen it in months. Videos of children's faces lighting up when they saw their portraits. Comments praising her talent, her patience, her kindness.
One post in particular made me stop scrolling. It was a black-and-white photograph, artistically composed—Elara sitting in the rain under a torn plastic tarp, water dripping from her hair onto her shoulders, her hand moving across the paper with focused intensity. The caption read: "Brooklyn Flea. October rain. A young artist at work. #StreetPhotography #Brooklyn #ArtistLife"
She looked free.
That was the word that came to me, unbidden and unwelcome. Free in a way she never looked at Blackwood Estate, never looked in my presence, never looked when she was trying to be what everyone expected her to be. She looked like herself—raw and real and wholly present in the moment.
I saved the photo to my camera roll before I could think better of it. Then I saved three more. Then all of them.
I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes against the headache building behind my temples. Today, when I'd gotten the alert about Elara's social media presence, my first instinct hadn't been to protect the family reputation. It had been something else entirely—something possessive and irrational that I didn't want to examine too closely.
I'd seen those photos of her smiling at strangers, making them happy with her art, and something in my chest had twisted violently. Why did she look like that for them? Why did she give those tourists and art students the soft smiles and gentle attention she used to give me? Why did she look so content in that shabby corner by the bathrooms when she'd always looked miserable at Blackwood?
The answer was obvious, and I hated it: she was free there. Free of me, free of the family, free of the weight of expectations and obligations and the constant reminder that she didn't belong.
I'd gone to Brooklyn Flea to bring her back. To remind her that she couldn't just walk away, that she was still connected to the Vane family whether she liked it or not. I'd told myself it was about reputation, about responsibility, about protecting her from herself.
But the truth—the truth I could barely admit even now—was that I'd been terrified. Terrified of seeing her build a life that didn't need me, didn't include me, didn't leave any space for me at all.
I opened my eyes and stared at my phone. My message thread with Elara showed our last exchange from days ago—me sending her the investigation files about Lucy, her not responding. I started typing before I could stop myself.
"Did you get home safe?"
Simple. Normal. The kind of thing anyone would ask after dropping someone off in an unfamiliar area.
I hit send.
The message failed immediately. Red text appeared beneath it: "Message failed to send. Not Delivered."
My blood went cold. I backed out and tried to open Elara's contact information.
"You cannot send messages to this contact."
She'd blocked me.
I tried calling. "The number you have dialed is not available."
She'd blocked my number entirely.
I stared at my phone screen, my pulse pounding in my ears. Elara had never—in three years of living under the same roof, in all the fights and misunderstandings and moments of tension—she had never cut me off completely. She'd always been there, waiting, hoping, reaching out even when I pushed her away.
But now she was gone.
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor, and paced to the window. My reflection stared back at me, and I barely recognized the man I saw—jaw clenched, eyes wild, hands curled into fists at my sides.
I'd spent three years taking Elara for granted. Three years assuming she'd always be there, always waiting in the wings, always ready to forgive me and come back for more. I'd treated her like a convenience, something I could pick up and put down at will, something that would never truly leave because where else did she have to go?
And now she'd proven me wrong.
She'd walked away. More than that—she'd locked the door behind her.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, my breath fogging the window. Somewhere in Brooklyn, Elara was probably asleep in that garage apartment, surrounded by her roommates and her art supplies and her hard-earned cash. Building a life without me. Maybe she was even relieved I was gone.
The thought made something crack inside my chest.
I pulled out my phone again, staring at the anonymous account I'd used to like her posts. I scrolled through the saved photos—Elara smiling at a child, Elara working in the rain, Elara looking peaceful and present and free.
She looked more beautiful in those candid shots than she ever had in the designer dresses I'd bought her, the jewelry I'd given her, the carefully staged family photos. She looked like herself. Like the girl I'd first met three years ago, before Blackwood Estate had worn her down to nothing.
I was losing her. No—I'd already lost her. She'd just finally stopped pretending otherwise.
And I had no idea what to do about it.