Chapter 40
Elara
I handed the phone back. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"Thank you for telling me," I said. My voice came out flat. Mechanical.
Emily bit her lip. Her eyes were damp. "Are you... are you okay?"
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was scared for me. Actually scared.
"I'm fine," I said. The lie tasted bitter. "At least I'm not trapped in that house anymore."
Emily opened her mouth, then closed it. She squeezed my arm once, quickly, before disappearing into the crowd.
I stood there for a moment, surrounded by staring students and whispered insults.
Then I started walking toward the administrative building.
One foot in front of the other.
Behind me, the whispers rose:
"She still has the nerve to show her face?"
"I heard the Vane family kicked her out. She's living in some slum now."
"Good. She deserves it."
My face burned. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. But I kept walking.
I wouldn't run. Not anymore.
---
The hallway near the main office was empty—most students were still outside, dissecting my life on their phones. My footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Each step felt heavy now, like I was walking through water.
I stopped at the bulletin board outside Dr. Pemberton's office. I needed a moment. Just one moment to steady myself before facing whatever was waiting inside.
The digital display screen caught my eye. Usually it showed lunch menus and club meeting times.
Today, it showed something different.
[ST. VALERIUS ACADEMY
ANNUAL FOUNDERS' DAY CELEBRATION
October 30th, 7:00 PM
Great Hall
SPECIAL GUESTS:
Ms. Sloane Kennedy — Renowned Contemporary Artist
Mr. Julian Vane — CEO, Vane Group
PROGRAM:
• Artist Talk: "From St. Valerius to the Chelsea Galleries: My Journey" (Ms. Kennedy)
• Live Portfolio Review: Representatives from RISD, Parsons, and Pratt will evaluate senior student work
• Selected pieces will be featured in the school's spring exhibition and recommended for top art programs
Portfolio submission deadline: October 29]
I read it once. Then again. The words blurred together.
Sloane Kennedy.
Julian Vane.
One week from today.
My breath caught in my throat. My hands went cold.
I knew this date. I remembered this event.
---
Last time—in my previous life—I'd been so excited. So hopeful.
I'd spent six months on a painting called "Fractured Mirror." A self-portrait done in shattered reflections. Each shard showing a different version of myself—the girl who smiled at dinner, the girl who cried alone at night, the girl who painted until her fingers bled.
It was the best work I'd ever done. The truest thing I'd ever created.
I remember standing in the art storage room on October 29th, carefully wrapping it in protective cloth. My hands had shaken with nerves and excitement. Tomorrow, college representatives would see it. Tomorrow, they'd know I was more than just the Vane family's charity case.
I'd locked the storage room. Double-checked the lock. Walked away feeling lighter than I had in months.
The next morning, I'd arrived early. My stomach had been full of butterflies. I'd barely slept.
I remember unlocking the storage room door. The smell had hit me first—sharp, chemical. Turpentine.
The painting was destroyed. Completely destroyed. Someone had poured an entire bottle of turpentine over it. The oil paints had dissolved, running together into a muddy mess. The canvas was warped, buckling.
I'd sunk to my knees on the floor. Stared at six months of work reduced to garbage. My hands had touched the ruined canvas, come away sticky with dissolved paint.
I remember thinking: Who would do this?
But I already knew. Deep down, I knew.
Dr. Pemberton had been sympathetic but firm. "These things happen, Miss Vance. Proper storage is the student's responsibility. I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do."
No investigation. No consequences.
Just my chance, gone.
That afternoon, I'd been backstage during the celebration. Helping the younger students hang their work. Trying not to cry. Trying to smile and act like everything was fine.
That's when I'd seen Sloane's assistant—a thin man with nervous hands—making last-minute adjustments to one of her paintings.
I'd stopped walking. Stared.
The brushwork. The way the light fell across the subject's face. The layering technique, building up translucent glazes. The texture in the background.
It was my style. My technique. Everything I'd taught myself by studying the old masters, by spending hours in the Met, by painting until my back ached.
All of it, in a painting with Sloane Kennedy's signature in the corner.
I'd stood there, frozen, while students rushed past me. While everyone applauded Sloane's "talent." While the college reps praised her "unique vision."
Three months later, that painting sold at a Chelsea gallery auction for $500,000.
The memory of it—standing backstage, invisible, while Sloane took credit for my work—made my chest tighten even now.
---
I came back to myself slowly. My heart was pounding. My hands were pressed flat against the bulletin board, fingers spread wide.
Students were trickling into the building for first period. Someone bumped my shoulder, muttered an apology.
I didn't move.
One week. Sloane would be here in one week. Julian too. They'd stand on that stage together, the perfect couple, while college representatives decided which students had futures worth investing in.
Last time, I'd lost everything that day.
This time...
My jaw clenched. My fingernails dug into the cork board.
This time, I would paint something she couldn't steal. Something only I could create. Something so undeniably mine that when those college representatives saw it, they'd know. They'd know the real artist wasn't Sloane Kennedy.
It was me. It had always been me.