Chapter 146
Elara
Shortly after the official statement was released, Isabel Torres posted a message on social media.
Her tweet was perfectly calibrated, every word chosen with surgical precision: "Thank you @PraxisPrize for your response. I respect the judges' decision and understand the multifaceted nature of artistic evaluation. I will continue to work hard and let my art speak for itself. #NeverGiveUp"
The photo she'd attached showed her in a Parsons classroom, surrounded by other students, natural light streaming through industrial windows. She stood at an easel, brush in hand, her expression focused and serene. The image radiated legitimacy, dedication, years of professional training distilled into a single frame.
The comments section was already filling up.
"Isabella you're too kind! If it were me I would've torn them apart!"
"Six years at Parsons and you lose to a high school student... I don't care what anyone says, that's not right."
"This is exactly how capital works. Regular people can work their entire lives and still lose to someone with connections. It is what it is."
"Your grace in defeat shows more character than some people's 'victory.' We see you queen."
I scrolled through hundreds of similar responses, my chest tightening with each one. Isabella herself hadn't replied to any of them, hadn't liked or retweeted a single comment. She'd simply posted her statement and stepped back, letting her supporters do the work for her.
It was brilliant, in a nauseating way. She'd positioned herself as gracious and professional while her fans tore me apart in the comments. She got to maintain the moral high ground while still feeding the narrative that I didn't deserve my placement.
"Elara?" Mamá's voice came from the doorway. "It's not even seven yet. Why are you awake?"
"Just checking something." I locked my phone screen, but not before she saw the tension in my face.
"More trouble?" She came in and sat on the edge of my bed, her cleaning uniform already on for her early shift. "Maybe you should just... let this go. Focus on school, on—"
"I can't let it go, Mamá. This is my future."
She sighed, reaching out to smooth my hair the way she used to when I was small. "I know. I just hate seeing you hurt."
After she left for work, I forced myself to get ready for school, each movement mechanical. The subway ride to St. Valerius felt longer than usual, every station a reminder that I was heading back into a place where everyone would have seen Isabella's post, where everyone would have formed their opinions.
I was right to be worried.
The moment I walked through the school gates, I felt it—the shift in atmosphere, the way conversations stopped when I passed, the phones that turned in my direction. Emily caught up with me near my locker, her expression tight with concern.
"Don't go to the main entrance after school," she said quietly.
"Why not?"
"Just... trust me. Use the east exit, the one by the art building."
She hurried off before I could ask more questions, leaving me with a knot of anxiety in my stomach that only grew tighter as the day progressed. In every class, I caught whispers, saw the screenshots on other students' phones. Isabella's gracious tweet. The comments calling me a fraud. The renewed speculation about my relationship with Julian.
By the time the final bell rang, I'd almost convinced myself Emily was overreacting. Then I walked toward the main entrance and saw them.
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk just beyond school property—maybe thirty people, mostly young women in their twenties, holding hand-painted signs. "DEFEND REAL ARTISTS." "PRAXIS PRIZE: EXPLAIN YOURSELVES." "ART IS WORK, NOT PRIVILEGE."
Several of them had set up phones on tripods, livestreaming to their followers. I recognized a few faces from Instagram—popular art students with thousands of followers, influencers who covered the New York art scene.
I froze in the doorway, my backpack suddenly feeling impossibly heavy.
"There she is!" someone shouted.
Heads turned. Phones swiveled in my direction. A woman in a Parsons sweatshirt stepped forward, her expression a mix of righteousness and anger.
"Elara Vance? We just want to talk to you about the competition."
I should have turned around. Should have listened to Emily and used the east exit. Instead, something stubborn and tired and angry made me walk forward.
"I'm listening," I said, stopping a careful distance away.
The woman smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "We're here supporting Isabella Torres, who worked for six years at one of the most prestigious art schools in the world, only to lose her spot to someone who... well, who had certain advantages."
"I didn't have any advantages." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I had my art supplies sabotaged the day of the preliminary round. I had to complete my piece with backup materials I'd never used before."
"But you did have Julian Vane give you the nomination slot, didn't you?" Another woman stepped forward, her phone camera pointed directly at my face. "The slot that should have gone to someone who actually applied on time?"
My mouth went dry.
"I—the nomination was offered to me as part of the competition's outreach program—"
"Outreach program?" The first woman laughed. "Is that what they're calling it? Because from where we're standing, it looks like Julian Vane used his position as a sponsor to get his... what are you, exactly? His girlfriend? His—"
"I'm not his girlfriend." The words came out sharp and defensive, exactly the wrong tone. I could see people in the crowd exchanging glances, see the comments flooding in on the livestreams.
"Then what are you?" someone called out. "Because there are photos of you getting into his car, going to his office building. If you're not dating him, then what's the relationship?"
I felt trapped, surrounded by hostile faces and recording devices, every word I said being broadcast and dissected in real-time. My heart hammered against my ribs, my palms slick with sweat.
"The relationship," I said slowly, forcing myself to meet the camera lens, "is that I'm an artist who earned my place in this competition based on the merit of my work. The judges saw my piece. They scored it. They explained their reasoning in the official statement. If you have a problem with their professional judgment, take it up with them, not with me."
"But you can't deny that Julian Vane gave you special treatment—"
"He gave me a nomination slot that was available to any qualified artist who'd faced barriers to traditional application." My voice was getting louder now, months of frustration bleeding through. "I didn't ask for it. I didn't sleep my way into it. I didn't use family connections or daddy's money or any of the things you're implying. I painted. That's it. I painted something honest and real, and the judges responded to it."
"Honest?" The woman in the Parsons sweatshirt stepped closer. "You want to talk about honest? Isabella trained for six years. She put in the work, paid her dues, developed her craft through legitimate channels. And you think a few months of—"
"I've been painting since I was a kid." The words burst out of me before I could stop them. "I used whatever materials I could find or afford. I painted through homelessness, through grief, through every kind of hardship you can imagine. So don't you dare tell me I haven't earned this."
The crowd had gone quiet, but I couldn't tell if it was because I'd moved them or because they were simply recording every word for later dissection.
"If Isabella is so talented," I continued, my voice shaking now but refusing to stop, "then she should be confident enough to let her work speak for itself. Instead, she posted a carefully worded tweet that she knew would send you all here to harass me. She gets to look gracious while you do her dirty work."
"She didn't send us—"
"She didn't have to. She knew exactly what would happen when she posted that photo, emphasized her six years of training, used that specific hashtag. She's not stupid, and neither am I."
I turned to leave, but one more voice called out: "If you're so confident in your abilities, why are you running away?"
I stopped, looking back over my shoulder. "I'm not running. I'm going home to paint. Because unlike some people, I actually have to prepare for the semifinals instead of staging social media campaigns."