Chapter 144
Elara
His head snapped back toward me. "She didn't—" He stopped himself. "Sloane doesn't need to ask me to do anything. I wrote that piece because it needed to be written. Because someone needs to maintain standards in a field that's increasingly willing to prioritize emotion over technique."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" The words came out gentler than I'd intended. "That you're doing this for art? For standards?" I took a breath. "Or do you tell yourself that if you just keep proving your loyalty—keep writing glowing reviews, keep attacking anyone who might threaten her position—that maybe someday she'll see you? Really see you, the way she sees Julian?"
"Stop." His hands were shaking now, both of them visible as he pulled them from his pockets. "You don't know anything about—"
"I know what it's like to love someone who treats you like you're invisible," I interrupted. "I know what it's like to watch them choose someone else, over and over, and still convince yourself that if you just try hard enough, sacrifice enough, maybe they'll finally turn around and notice you're there."
His face went pale. For a long moment he just stared at me. I saw my own pain reflected back—the same desperate hope, the same bitter resignation.
"You think you've figured something out," he said finally. "You think you understand. But you're wrong about one thing."
I waited.
"I don't expect her to choose me." The words came out flat, like he was reciting a truth he'd long since accepted. "I never have. I know exactly what I am to her—a useful resource, someone who can help maintain her image, advance her career. I'm not deluded enough to think it's anything more than that."
"Then why—"
"Because loving someone doesn't require them to love you back." He met my eyes directly now. "It just requires you to love them. And I do. I have for years, and I will for years more, probably. That's not going to change just because she married Julian Vane. It's not going to change even after they have their perfect family and their perfect life and I'm nothing but a name in her contacts she calls when she needs favorable press coverage."
My throat went tight. This was what I would become if I didn't break free—this hollow acceptance, this willingness to be used as long as it meant staying close to someone who would never see me as anything more than a tool.
"So yes," Ethan continued, "I wrote that article. And yes, it was biased. And yes, I will continue to write pieces that benefit Sloane Kennedy, because that's what I choose to do with my platform and my influence. Not because she asked me to. Not because I think she'll reward me for it. But because making her happy is the closest I'll ever get to having her, and I've made my peace with that."
"Mr. Holt," I said quietly, "do you think this is what she wanted you to become? Someone who compromises their integrity for her sake?"
His laugh was bitter. "You think I had integrity before her? You think any of us do, in this world?" He gestured vaguely toward the exhibition hall. "We're all compromised, Miss Vance. We all serve someone's interests. I just happen to be honest about whose interests I serve."
"You're destroying your credibility as a critic. Anyone who looks closely enough will see the pattern—every artist you've torn down has been someone who posed a threat to Sloane's position. Every glowing review you've written has been for her or her allies. How long before the entire art world realizes you're not a journalist anymore, just—"
"Let them realize it." His voice went cold. "I don't care."
"You should care. You could be using your voice to actually champion emerging artists, to push the field forward, instead of just propping up someone who—"
"Who what?" he interrupted sharply. "Someone who doesn't deserve it? Is that what you were going to say?"
I hesitated. "Someone who might not be what she seems."
Ethan took a step toward me. I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall.
"Careful, Miss Vance," he said softly. "You're already on thin ice with your second-place finish. You really want to start making accusations you can't prove?"
"I'm not accusing anyone of anything," I said. "I'm just saying that maybe—maybe if you looked at her work with the same critical eye you turn on everyone else, you might see things that don't quite add up."
"Her work is flawless." But there was something in his eyes now, a flicker of doubt quickly suppressed. "I've studied every piece she's ever created. I know her style, her techniques, her—"
"Do you?" I challenged. "Or do you know what you want to see?"
For a moment, just a moment, I saw him waver. Then his face hardened again.
"This conversation is over," he said flatly. "But let me make something very clear. That article was just the beginning. I have a series planned—analysis pieces for the semifinals, the finals, expert commentary on each stage of the competition. And I will be watching you very, very closely, Miss Vance. Every brushstroke, every color choice, every technical decision. And I will write about all of it with complete objectivity."
"Objectivity." I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice.
"Objectivity," he repeated. "I will note where your technique falls short. I will question whether your high scores reflect genuine artistic merit or judges' sympathy for your difficulties. I will compare your work to established standards and point out every place where you fail to meet them. And I will do it all without a single provable lie or actionable statement."
My stomach dropped. He was describing how he'd destroy me, piece by piece, all while staying just inside the bounds of acceptable commentary.
"You're going to ruin me," I said quietly. "Just because I suggested you might be in love with someone who doesn't love you back."
"No." His smile was cold. "I'm going to hold you to the same standards I hold every artist. If that ruins you, it's because you weren't good enough to begin with."
We stared at each other. He would do this. He would use his platform, his influence, his carefully built reputation to make sure I never had a chance.
"I'm sorry," I said finally, and meant it. "I'm sorry that she can't see what you're willing to sacrifice for her. I'm sorry that you've decided that's enough."
Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe. But it was gone in an instant.
"Save your pity, Miss Vance. You're going to need it for yourself." He adjusted his glasses one final time. "Enjoy your moment in the spotlight. It won't last long."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. I watched him go, my whole body trembling.
I pulled out my phone and quickly typed an email to Dr. Sterling about the sabotage and the media conflicts of interest. My fingers shook as I hit send.
The reply came back within fifteen minutes.
"Already arranging for the tech team to pull complete security footage. We'll investigate thoroughly. As for The New York Art Review article, we'll be issuing an official response."
I hit send, then leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. My phone buzzed—a text from Raven.
"Are you okay? Where are you? People are being HORRIBLE."
I typed back: "I'm fine. Needed some air. Heading back now."