Chapter 111
Elara
I walked out of the café in a daze, my hands shaking so badly I had to shove them into my coat pockets. The cold November air hit my face, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was how stupid I'd been—how could I have forgotten about the Praxis Award? In my previous life, I'd wanted so desperately to enter it, had circled the deadline on my calendar and dreamed about what it would mean to have my work displayed at the Saatchi Gallery. And now, in this life, with a real chance to change things, I'd let the deadline pass without even thinking about it.
The registration had closed last week. One week. If I'd just paid attention, if I hadn't been so consumed with surviving Julian's control and Sloane's schemes and Victoria's constant attacks, I could have submitted my application like anyone else. But I'd missed it, and now my only option had been to ask Julian for help, and he'd—
God. The look on his face when I'd asked. Like I was some pathetic copycat trying to compete with Sloane, trying to prove I was just as good as his perfect pregnant fiancée. He hadn't even considered that maybe, just maybe, I wanted this for myself. That my art had nothing to do with him.
"Elara!"
I turned to see Raven jogging toward me from the direction of the student cafeteria, her purple hair flying behind her. She was slightly out of breath when she reached me, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
"Hey, I just got here," she said, studying my face with immediate concern. "I came as soon as I received the text. What happened? Your text sounded weird."
I'd sent her a message after leaving the café: "Need to talk. Can you meet?"
"Julian said no," I told her, my voice coming out flat. "About the Praxis Award. He thinks I'm trying to copy Sloane."
Raven's expression darkened. "That fucking asshole. After everything—" She shook her head sharply. "You know what? Forget him. We'll figure something else out."
"Like what?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "The deadline passed. It's over."
"It's not over until we say it's over," Raven said firmly. She grabbed my arm and started pulling me back toward the main building. "Come on. Let's go somewhere warm and actually think this through instead of giving up."
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in an empty classroom on the third floor of the arts building, the kind of space that nobody used after two PM because the afternoon sun made it too bright and hot. Raven had her laptop open on one of the desks, her fingers already flying across the keyboard while I sat beside her, trying to pull myself together.
"Okay," Raven said, her eyes scanning the screen. "So the Praxis International Young Artists Award. Registration closed last week, but—" She clicked through several pages. "It's sponsored by a bunch of companies. Not just Vane Group. There's got to be other ways in."
I leaned over to look at her screen. She'd pulled up the award's official website, which listed all the corporate sponsors in neat rows. Technology companies, pharmaceutical corporations, investment firms—all with more money than I could imagine, all completely out of reach.
"Raven, I don't know anyone at these companies," I said. "And even if I did, why would they give me a slot? They probably have their own candidates already picked out."
"Maybe," Raven admitted, scrolling down. "But some of these are smaller. Private firms. They might be more flexible." She paused, clicking on one entry. "Look at this one. Hartley Capital Partners. They specialize in arts and culture investments."
She pulled up the company's website, which was sleek and minimalist, all black backgrounds and white text. Under "Managing Partners," there were three names listed. The second one made me freeze.
Marcus Hartley.
"Holy shit," I breathed.
Raven looked at me sharply. "What? You know him?"
"Sort of." I was already pulling up the memory—that night at the Vanderbilt Club, weeks ago, when Julian had dragged me there and left me with his friends. Marcus had been one of them."
Raven's expression shifted from curious to worried. "The night Julian took you to that awful place? Elara, I don't know if—"
"He might remember me," I interrupted. "And if he does, maybe I can convince him to give me a shot at the slot. It's better than nothing, right?"
Raven bit her lip, clearly torn. "I don't like it. These finance guys, they're all the same. They don't do favors for free."
"I know," I said quietly. "But what choice do I have?"
She didn't answer right away, just kept clicking through the website, pulling up more information about Marcus Hartley and his company. He was twenty-five, Harvard Business School, previously worked at Goldman Sachs before starting his own firm three years ago. There were photos of him at various charity events and art gallery openings, always in expensive suits, always with that same smooth smile.
"He's got a dinner reservation tonight," Raven said finally, pointing at something on her screen. I didn't ask how she'd found that information—Raven had ways of accessing things she probably shouldn't. "Eight PM at Marea. Midtown."
"Tonight?" My stomach twisted. "That's in like, five hours."
"Yeah." Raven turned to look at me directly. "So you need to decide right now if you're really going to do this. Because if you are, we need to get you ready."
I thought about Julian's condescending patience in the café, the way he'd dismissed my ambitions like they were nothing more than jealous attempts to compete with Sloane. I thought about the Praxis Award, about the chance to have my work seen by people who mattered, about the scholarship money that could help me get further away from the Vane family's control.
"I'm going to do it," I said.
Raven nodded slowly. "Okay. But promise me something—if this guy tries anything, if he makes you uncomfortable at all, you get out of there. The competition slot isn't worth your safety."
"I promise," I said, even though we both knew that safety was a luxury I couldn't always afford.