Chapter 190
Elara
The words took time to penetrate. When they did, something broke in my chest.
Not my control. Something deeper.
My hands released his arms and clutched his shirt instead, pulling him closer as sobs finally broke free. Harsh and ugly and impossible to stop.
"I thought—" I gasped against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek. "I thought you'd given up on me again. That I wasn't worth—"
"Never." His arms came around me properly, holding tight. His hands were shaking. "I will never give up on you again. I promised we'd face this together." His chin rested on top of my head. "I meant every word."
I don't know how long we stood there. The chaos raged around us, but I couldn't focus on anything except his heartbeat, his arms, the way he was holding me like he'd never let go.
Eventually Dr. Sterling's voice cut through the noise, amplified and sharp with authority.
"Order! Everyone needs to remain calm while we address this situation."
Julian kept one arm around my shoulders as we both turned to watch. Anchoring me.
Dr. Sterling waited for quiet. "Given what has just been presented, the judging panel needs to convene an emergency session to review these allegations."
A man's voice from the audience interrupted her. Angry. Entitled.
"Emergency session? What's there to review? If Sloane Kennedy has a history of plagiarism, how can we trust these results? We demand full transparency! Show us all the finalists' work and the complete scoring!"
Others took up the cry immediately. "Show the work!" "Full transparency!" "We have a right to know!"
The livestream exploded with the same demands.
Dr. Sterling's jaw tightened. She turned to confer with the other judges, their heads bent together. The audience kept chanting, louder and louder, until she finally returned to the microphone.
"Very well." Her voice cut through the noise like a blade. "In the interest of complete transparency, the judging panel will publicly display all ten finalists' pieces along with their scoring rubrics and comments. Technical crew, prepare the displays."
Staff rushed to adjust the screens. The audience fell into anticipatory silence.
I held my breath.
The screens flickered. Images began to appear—the other finalists' work first. Isabella's perfect but cold still life. Nora's powerful self-portrait. Pieces I'd barely noticed during the competition.
Then my painting appeared on the massive center screen.
The room drew in a collective breath.
Hands passing burdens down through generations. Beautiful chains that couldn't be refused or released. Colors shifting from rich privilege to muddy complexity. The smallest hands at the end, beginning to open—to drop the weight or reach for something new, the meaning deliberately unclear.
Silence stretched. Three heartbeats. Four. Five.
Then someone said, awe in their voice, "My God. That's extraordinary."
Everything erupted.
But this time it was different.
"Why didn't this place?" "The emotional depth—" "Look at the composition—" "This is what art is supposed to do—" "How did the judges miss this?"
Julian's arm tightened around my shoulders. He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear.
"The whole world is seeing you now," he murmured. "Really seeing you. Just like I promised."
On stage, Sloane's carefully constructed mask of composure began to crack, fissures spreading across her face as she clutched the trophy that now felt like evidence of fraud rather than achievement.
I watched from Julian's side as she stepped toward the microphone, her movements mechanical, rehearsed. Even now, she was performing.
"Everyone... this is a misunderstanding." Her voice trembled with what might have been genuine tears or exceptional acting—I could no longer tell the difference. "Elena Castellano was indeed a name I used, but it was meant as tribute to an artist who inspired me, not theft..."
Giulia's voice cut through like a blade. "You told people you were Elena Castellano. How do you explain that?"
Sloane's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Her eyes found Ethan in the audience, a silent plea for rescue written in their depths. But Ethan remained frozen in his seat, his face a study in conflicting loyalties and dawning horror.
The audience erupted. Boos cascaded down from the stands. Someone shouted "Liar!" Another voice demanded "Give us the truth!" The livestream chat scrolled past so fast the words blurred into a river of outrage.
Ethan finally moved, half-rising from his seat as if to intervene, but two security guards materialized beside him with professional efficiency. He sank back down, his carefully cultivated media persona crumbling into naked rage and humiliation.
Sloane turned to flee. Her heel caught on the stage edge and she stumbled, the trophy slipping from her grasp. It hit the ground with a crystalline crack that echoed through the suddenly silent hall, splitting cleanly down the middle. The sound felt prophetic, final. She stared at the broken pieces for a heartbeat before Ethan broke free of security and rushed to pull her away, their exit marked by the harsh whispers and pointing fingers that followed them like a wake.
I should have felt triumphant. Vindicated. Instead, I felt hollow, exhausted in a way that went deeper than bone. My hand found the compass pendant at my throat—no, I'd given that back. My fingers closed on empty air.
"Elena, did you see that?" The words slipped out in a whisper meant only for the memory of Mrs. Castellano.
Julian's voice came soft beside me. "She saw it. She saw everything."
Before I could process that, Dr. Sterling approached, her heels clicking against the stage floor with purposeful determination.
Instead, she bowed. Deeply, formally, the gesture carrying decades of professional dignity and personal shame.
"Elara." My name sounded different in her voice now, weighted with respect I'd never heard before. "I must apologize to you. When I scored your work, I gave it the highest mark possible—a perfect ten. But due to our blind judging system, I had no knowledge of the other scores until this moment."
She produced a tablet, turning it so I could see the scoring breakdown displayed in stark black and white. My breath caught.
"Three judges gave you deliberately low scores. Two points. One point. Three points." Her voice hardened with each number, professional outrage bleeding through her controlled tone. "This kind of systematic suppression violates every principle of fair artistic evaluation. In my thirty years as a curator, I have never witnessed such a blatant miscarriage of justice."
She met my eyes, and I saw they were wet. "Your painting is one of the most soulful works I've encountered in my entire career. You deserved better than this."
I managed a nod, though my throat had closed around words I couldn't form. "Thank you," I finally whispered. "At least someone truly saw it."
The audience, which had been listening with growing fury, erupted again. "Who were those judges?" someone demanded. "Did the Kennedy family buy them off?" "This whole competition is rigged!" "Demand a recount!"