Chapter 101
Elara
The VIP room at Lenox Hill smelled like antiseptic and expensive flowers. Anya slept peacefully, monitors beeping a steady rhythm. Raven sat beside me, gripping the armrest so hard her knuckles were white.
"I have to pay this back," she said. Her voice was flat. Decided.
I'd been expecting this. "Raven—"
"I know what you're going to say. That he doesn't care about the money. That it's nothing to him." She turned to look at me. Her eyes were red from crying but dry now. "But I care. I'm not going to owe anyone. Especially not... that kind of person."
She didn't say Julian's name. She didn't have to.
I understood her wariness better than she knew. I'd lived it. In my past life, every favor Julian did for me became a chain. Every gift became leverage. By the time I realized what was happening, I couldn't move without his permission.
"Then we figure it out together," I said. "I have money, but..."
I couldn't finish. That money felt wrong in my hands. It was compensation for my father's life. It was hush money. It was control dressed up as generosity. Every dollar Julian transferred carried his fingerprints.
Raven looked at me. Really looked. "You're serious."
"Yes."
Something shifted in her face. The tension in her shoulders eased just slightly. "Okay. We do this together."
Two people in the same situation, I thought. Both trying to climb out. Both refusing to be owned.
---
By Saturday afternoon, we were sitting on Diego's floor in the Iron District apartment. Raven had her phone out, scrolling through job listings. Coffee shop barista—seven twenty-five an hour. Dog walker—ten dollars per walk. Grocery store cashier—eight fifty an hour.
"The shifts don't work," she said, frustrated. "I need to visit Grandma during visiting hours. And I can't miss school or I'll fail."
I stared at my art supply box in the corner. The idea had been forming since yesterday.
"Brooklyn Flea," I said.
Raven looked up. "The market?"
"I've seen street artists there. They do portrait sketches. Small paintings. Cash business. Flexible hours." I met her eyes. "I can paint. You can help me talk to customers."
Her face changed. Hope, maybe. Or just the relief of having a plan. "That could work."
Diego appeared in the doorway, holding a beer. He'd been listening. "You talking about setting up a booth?"
"Maybe," I said.
He set down his beer and disappeared into his room. When he came back, he was carrying a portable easel. "You can borrow this. I used it before I got my studio gig." He thought for a second. "Price portraits at thirty to fifty dollars. Small paintings at one-fifty minimum. Artists always undersell themselves."
He paused. Looked at me seriously. "Also, use a fake name..."
"Lara V.," I said immediately. Close enough to feel real. Far enough to hide.
Raven was already tapping on her phone. "I can design business cards right now. There's a FedEx on the corner. We can print them tonight."
Diego nodded. "Williamsburg is safer than Manhattan. The Vanes don't really go there. Too many artists, not enough bankers."
The way he said it made it clear he knew more than he was saying. But I was grateful for his help. For the easel. For the advice. For not asking questions.
That night, Raven and I stayed up late. She designed the cards on her phone—simple, clean, with my fake name. I painted two sample portraits, using Diego and Yuki as models. They sat on the couch, arguing about some anime, while I captured their faces in charcoal and paint.
My hands hurt by the time I finished. But the drawings were good. Better than good.
"These are amazing," Yuki said, looking at herself on paper. "You're going to make so much money."
I wanted to believe her.
---
Sunday morning, the alarm went off at four-thirty AM. My whole body ached. I hadn't slept well. The hospital visit, the confrontation with Julian, the plan for today—it all churned in my mind.
Raven met me in the kitchen. She looked as tired as I felt.
"Ready?" she asked.
"No. But let's go anyway."
We took the subway to Williamsburg. The train was nearly empty at this hour—just a few overnight shift workers and one homeless man sleeping across three seats. I held my art box on my lap. Raven carried the folding table Diego had lent us.
The market at East River State Park was just opening when we arrived. The sky was still dark. Vendors were unloading trucks, setting up tents. The air smelled like coffee and bagels from the food stalls.
The woman at the registration table looked us up and down. "First time?"
"Yes," I said.
"Booth fee is sixty dollars. Cash only. You get a ten-by-ten space. No refunds if it rains."
I counted out the money. It was cash Diego had lent me. I'd pay him back after today. I had to.
The woman handed me a map with our spot marked. "You're in the back corner. Near the bathrooms. Not the best spot, but that's what's left."
We dragged our supplies to the corner. The space was small. The smell from the bathrooms was noticeable. But there was good natural light.
Raven and I set up the table. I arranged my sample sketches on the easel. She taped the business cards to the table edge.
"How do we get people to stop?" she asked.
"I don't know. Smile?"
She laughed. It was a nervous sound. "Okay. Smiling. I can do that."
The market opened at eight. For the first hour, people walked past our booth without stopping. They looked at the paintings, then kept walking. I tried not to feel discouraged.
My feet hurt from standing. My stomach growled—we'd skipped breakfast to save money. Raven kept rearranging the business cards, trying to look busy.
Then a couple stopped. They were young, maybe mid-twenties. The girl had pink hair and a nose ring.
"Did you do these?" she asked, pointing at my samples.
"Yes."
She leaned closer. Studied the portrait of Yuki I'd done last night. "This is really good. Like, really good. Can you do us? Together?"
My heart jumped. "Yes. Of course. Thirty dollars for a basic sketch, fifty for detailed."
"Detailed," she said immediately.
I set up my charcoal and paper. They sat close together on the bench Raven had found. The girl rested her head on her boyfriend's shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her.
I started drawing. My hand moved fast. I'd done this a thousand times in my past life—quick sketches to warm up before real painting sessions. But I'd never done it for money. Never for strangers.
It felt different. Good different.
Fifteen minutes later, I showed them the finished sketch. The girl gasped.
"Oh my God. This is perfect. This is us." She turned to her boyfriend. "Baby, look at this."
He pulled out his wallet. Handed me fifty dollars. "Keep the change. You're really talented."
"Can I take a picture?" the girl asked. "I want to post this."
"Sure."
She took a photo of the sketch, then of me and Raven at the booth. She was already typing on her phone as they walked away.
"Brooklyn Flea discovery: insanely talented artist at the back corner near the bathrooms. Go support her! @LaraV_Art"
Within twenty minutes, we had a line.