Chapter 143
Elara
I felt every gaze like a needle against my skin. My appetite—already nonexistent—vanished completely. But I forced myself to take another bite of sushi, to chew and swallow even though it tasted like cardboard, because walking out now would look like guilt. Like I couldn't face what they were saying.
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Raven: "People are AWFUL. Don't let them get to you."
I didn't respond. Couldn't. My vision was starting to blur at the edges, my breathing getting shallow. I needed to get out of here before I broke down in front of everyone.
But then a clear voice cut through the murmur of judgment.
"Did any of you actually read that article?"
I looked up. Nora was standing at her table, her face flushed but her voice steady. She held her phone up like evidence.
"Seriously. Did you read it, or did you just see the headline and decide it confirmed what you already thought?"
A guy near her scoffed. "We read it. Ethan Holt's a professional editor. He's allowed to have an opinion."
"An opinion?" Nora's voice went sharp. "A third of that article is gushing about Sloane Kennedy. You don't think that's weird? For an 'objective' analysis?"
She scrolled through her phone, her movements quick and angry. "I looked him up on Twitter. You know who's the only artist he follows where he likes and retweets every single post? Sloane Kennedy. That's not professional journalism. That's fan behavior."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some people pulled out their phones, checking for themselves.
Nora wasn't done. "And another thing—can any of you create a second-place work after your brushes get cut and your paint gets ruined? Dr. Sterling is a MoMA curator. Her professional judgment is supposed to mean less than some editor who's obviously got a personal bias?"
She looked around the room, meeting people's eyes, daring them to argue. "You want to talk about fairness? How about the fact that someone sabotaged Elara's materials and she still placed? How about the fact that she had to paint with backup supplies she'd never used before and still created something that moved people?"
I stared at her, my throat tight, my eyes burning. She glanced at me, and I mouthed thank you. She ducked her head, embarrassed but proud, and gave me a small nod before waving me toward the exit. Go, she mouthed back.
I grabbed my supply case and stood up, my legs unsteady. At the trash station, I dumped my barely-touched plate, watching the food slide into the bin like everything else I couldn't stomach today. Then I headed for the restroom corridor, needing somewhere quiet, somewhere I could breathe without an audience analyzing my every move.
I'd just cleared the buffet area threshold when I heard footsteps behind me.
"Miss Vance? Could I have a few minutes of your time?"
I recognized Ethan's voice immediately—smooth, polite, with an undercurrent of something harder. I didn't stop walking. "Sorry, I have somewhere to be."
"Just a few minutes." His footsteps quickened. "I'd like to interview you about today's results."
I stopped but didn't turn around. My jaw was so tight it hurt. "I saw your article, Mr. Holt."
He came around to face me, adjusting his black-framed glasses. Those gray-blue eyes studied me with the same cool assessment I'd seen in the stairwell when he'd looked at my painting. "Then you should understand—I'm simply fulfilling my responsibility as an art critic. Objective analysis."
I finally met his gaze. "Objective? You spent three paragraphs praising Sloane Kennedy. That's objective?"
His smile was thin, not reaching his eyes. "Because her work genuinely deserves praise. The technique is flawless, the concept profound. Those are facts."
"And your assessment of my work—'rough brushwork,' 'thin layering,' 'harsh color transitions'—those are facts too?" My voice stayed level, but I felt my control fraying at the edges.
"Aren't they?" He tilted his head slightly. "Dr. Sterling herself acknowledged your technical limitations."
"She also said art isn't just technique. But that didn't make it into your article, did it?"
"My article focuses on technical standards." His tone was maddeningly calm. "That's The New York Art Review's consistent editorial position."
I took a breath, trying to steady myself. "Are you sure your motivation is 'maintaining artistic standards,' Mr. Holt?"
Something flickered in his expression. "What are you implying?"
"Or is it about Sloane?"
The polite smile vanished. His voice dropped. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The stairwell conversation. Yesterday afternoon, around 3:20. You and Sloane Kennedy."
I watched Ethan's jaw tighten. His hand, still buried in his coat pocket, clenched into a fist—the fabric pulled taut over his knuckles.
"You were eavesdropping on a private conversation?" His voice dropped, losing that measured critic's tone.
I shook my head. "I was passing by. But now I understand why you wrote that article." I paused. "It wasn't about maintaining artistic standards at all, was it?"
His eyes narrowed behind those black-framed glasses. For a moment I thought he might deny it again. Then he tilted his head slightly.
"What exactly do you think you heard, Miss Vance?"
Not what did you hear, but what do you think you heard. Already preparing to reframe it, reinterpret it. I'd seen Julian do the same thing a hundred times. Watched Sloane perfect it.
"Enough," I said. "I heard her tell you to keep your distance. To make sure no one sees you together. I heard her remind you that she's Julian's fiancée now, and that you need to be careful."
His face went blank, but his breathing changed—shorter, shallower.
"You're making assumptions," he said finally. "Sloane and I are colleagues. We work in the same circles. It's natural that we'd—"
"You love her." The words came out before I could stop them. And watching his face—watching something break behind his eyes, just for a second—I knew I was right. "You've loved her for a long time."
He turned away slightly, one hand coming up to adjust his glasses. When he spoke again, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear it.
"That's none of your business."
"You're right," I said. "It's not. But it does explain the article. And it explains why you're so determined to tear me down—because she asked you to, didn't she?"