Chapter 110
Elara
I didn't stop when Julian called my name. I kept walking, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the cafeteria entrance ahead. The lunch bell had just rung, and the hallway was filling with students streaming in the same direction, their voices rising in cheerful chaos around me.
Raven fell into step beside me, her purple-streaked hair catching the afternoon light through the tall windows. "That was ice cold," she said, not bothering to hide her approval. "Did you see his face?"
"He looked like he always does," I cut in, keeping my voice level. "Like someone who expects the world to stop when he speaks."
We pushed through the double doors into the cafeteria, and I finally allowed myself to breathe. The space was already crowded, filled with the clatter of trays and the smell of hot food and the overlapping conversations of three hundred teenagers trying to be heard over each other. We joined the lunch line, and I focused on the mundane task of selecting a sandwich and salad, trying to ignore the way my hands wanted to shake.
"You okay?" Raven asked quietly as we moved toward the register.
"Fine," I lied.
She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me but wasn't going to push. We paid for our food and found seats at a table near the windows, where Emily and a few other students from our art class were already eating.
The conversation flowed around me—something about the upcoming spring exhibition, speculation about who would get featured placements, complaints about the amount of homework. I tried to participate, tried to act normal, but my attention kept drifting to the entrance, half-expecting Julian to appear.
He didn't. Maybe he'd left. Maybe he'd realized I wasn't going to come running just because he'd called my name.
The thought should have been satisfying. Instead, it left me feeling oddly hollow.
We finished eating, and I was helping Raven carry our trays to the disposal area when Emily grabbed my arm. "Um, Elara? Don't look now, but..."
I looked.
Julian stood just outside the cafeteria entrance, visible through the glass doors. He was exactly where I'd seen him earlier—same bench, same perfectly tailored suit. Atlas remained at his side, a silent sentinel in black.
Julian was looking directly at me through the glass, his expression unreadable but his focus absolute.
He'd been waiting. This entire time.
"Jesus," Raven muttered. "That's actually kind of creepy."
It was. And it was also exactly like Julian—patient, implacable, utterly certain that eventually people would do what he wanted simply because he'd decided they should.
I set down my tray with more force than necessary. "I'll be right back."
I pushed through the cafeteria doors and walked toward him, acutely aware of the students who'd noticed and were now watching with undisguised curiosity.
Julian stood as I approached. He removed his gold-rimmed reading glasses—I'd forgotten he was slightly nearsighted—and waited with that particular stillness he had, the kind that made you feel like you were the one who'd kept him waiting even when you hadn't.
I stopped a careful three feet away, crossing my arms. "What do you want?"
His jaw tightened fractionally. "Atlas has reserved a table at the school café. We need to talk."
"I don't think we have anything to talk about." The words came out sharper than I'd intended, but I didn't soften them. "I have class in twenty minutes. Whatever you want, it can wait."
Atlas materialized at my elbow, his expression professionally neutral but his intent clear. "Miss Vance, Mr. Vane has been waiting for over an hour."
That stopped me. An hour? Julian had been sitting here, in full view of the entire student body, waiting for me?
I looked at him more carefully. There were faint shadows under his eyes that I hadn't noticed before, and his tie was slightly loosened—minor imperfections that on anyone else would be meaningless but on Julian suggested actual exhaustion.
"Fine," I said, more to get this over with than anything else. "Ten minutes. That's all you get."
Something flickered in his expression—relief, maybe, or satisfaction—but it was gone too quickly for me to identify. He gestured toward the café building, and I fell into step beside him, Atlas trailing behind us like a particularly well-dressed shadow.
The café occupied a separate structure near the arts wing, designed to look like an upscale bistro with floor-to-ceiling windows and tasteful modern furniture. Atlas had indeed reserved the best booth, tucked in a quiet corner away from prying eyes.
Julian waited until I'd slid into the seat across from him before speaking. On the table between us sat an untouched cappuccino and a plate of pastries—clearly ordered in advance, clearly meant for me.
"Congratulations on your exam results," he said.
I didn't touch the coffee. "Is that what you waited an hour to tell me?"
"I heard you deleted my contact information. And blocked my number."
"Yes."
His fingers drummed once against the table, the only visible sign of agitation. "Why?"
I met his eyes directly. "Because we don't need to be in contact."
"I disagree."
"That's not my problem."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel solid. Julian leaned back slightly, studying me with an intensity that made me want to look away, but I forced myself to hold his gaze.
"Give me your phone," he said finally.
"Why?"
"Unblock me."
I almost laughed. "I don't see why that's necessary."
"Elara—"
"We're not family," I interrupted, the words coming out harder than I'd intended. "I moved out of Blackwood. I'm supporting myself. There's no reason for us to communicate."
He exhaled sharply, and for a moment I thought he might actually lose his temper. Instead, he seemed to force himself back under control, his voice dropping to something quieter but no less intense. "If you unblock my number, I'll agree to one condition of your choosing."
I blinked, genuinely surprised. Julian didn't negotiate. Julian commanded, expected obedience, and punished resistance. The fact that he was offering to compromise meant something had shifted, though I couldn't quite identify what.
My eyes drifted to the window. The café overlooked the main campus plaza, where a massive LED screen displayed rotating announcements and advertisements. As I watched, the screen switched to a promotional video for an art competition:
"PRAXIS INTERNATIONAL YOUNG ARTISTS AWARD"
"GRAND PRIZE: SOLO EXHIBITION AT SAATCHI GALLERY + $50,000 SCHOLARSHIP"
My heart stuttered. The Praxis Award. I'd wanted to enter it in my previous life.
"I want to enter the Praxis International Young Artists Award," I heard myself say.
Julian's brow furrowed. "The registration deadline passed last week."
"I know. But Vane Group is one of the major sponsors. You donate half a million annually. One phone call from you to the organizers, and I'd have a special entry slot."
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then: "Why do you want to enter?"
The question caught me off guard. I'd expected resistance, not curiosity.
"Because I want to," I said carefully. "I don't need a reason beyond that."
Something shifted in his eyes—a flash of certainty that made my stomach drop even before he spoke.
"Sloane is entering."
The words landed like a physical blow. Of course she was. Of course Julian would know her plans, would probably be helping her prepare her submission, would be there at the award ceremony if she won.
And he thought—
Oh God. He thought I was copying her. Trying to compete with her. Trying to prove I could be just as good as his perfect, pregnant fiancée.
"So you think I'm trying to imitate Sloane," I said flatly.
Julian didn't deny it. His expression had settled into something maddeningly patient, as if he were dealing with a child who needed gentle correction. "Elara, you don't need to do this. You have your own path."
The condescension in his voice made me want to throw the cappuccino in his face. He'd reduced my entire ambition, my talent, my desperate need to reclaim what had been stolen from me, to pathetic jealousy of his fiancée.
I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor. "You want to know what's really pathetic? You can never see the real me. To you, I'm either 'the poor orphan who needs taking care of' or 'the crazy girl who's jealous of Sloane.' But you've never once considered that maybe—just maybe—I want to be myself. Not your project. Not your burden. Not your anything."
Julian stood as well, his jaw tight. "Elara, you're not being rational—"
"Forget it." I grabbed my bag. "I won't ask you for help. Goodbye, Mr. Vane."
"Elara—"
"And about the blocking thing?" I turned back at the door, my voice cold. "You can stay right where you are. In my blocked contacts. Where you belong."