Chapter 174
Elara
The morning of the semifinals, I woke up at five-thirty with my stomach in knots. I'd barely slept—just kept staring at the ceiling, running through color combinations and composition ideas until they blurred together into nonsense.
My phone buzzed with the official email. "New competition format implemented for fairness and security. Details to be provided on-site."
Right. Because of what happened in the preliminaries. Because someone had tampered with my materials and half the art world was screaming about nepotism and the other half was calling me a liar.
I got dressed in the dark so I wouldn't wake Mom, pulled on jeans and the same black sweater I'd worn to every major exam since sophomore year. Lucky sweater. God, I needed all the luck I could get.
The venue had changed—no more open studio space. Instead, we were in some converted warehouse in Long Island City. I took three trains to get there, clutching my portfolio case like it might fly away if I loosened my grip.
Security at the entrance looked like airport TSA on steroids.
"ID and confirmation code."
I fumbled with my phone, nearly dropped it. The guard scanned my email, waved me through a metal detector. On the other side, a woman in a Praxis Prize polo shirt started going through my art supplies like she was looking for contraband.
"All brushes must remain in original packaging until competition start." She pulled out my favorite sable set—the ones I'd saved up three months of street portrait money to buy—and handed me a sealed box instead. "Paints will be distributed on-site. No outside materials."
"But these are—"
"No exceptions."
I bit down on the rest of my protest. They were trying to prevent sabotage. I got it. Didn't mean it didn't feel like they were cutting off my hands before asking me to paint.
Inside, the warehouse floor had been divided into glass cubicles. Rows and rows of them, each one identical: six by eight feet, fluorescent lights, a camera mounted in the corner, a door with a badge reader. Like an office building designed by someone who'd never actually worked in an office.
I found my assignment on the monitor by the entrance. Booth 3-C. Third row, dead center. Maximum visibility from every angle.
The booth was sterile. Adjustable easel, rolling cart with sealed paint tubes, brushes still in plastic. A digital clock on the wall. Four hours. That's all we had.
I started unpacking what little they'd let me bring. Sketches. Reference photos. Dad's pocket watch that hadn't worked in eight years but I kept anyway because—because I did.
Through the glass walls, I could see Sloane being escorted to her booth. Front row, of course. Prime position. She walked slowly, one hand on her stomach, and even from here I could see her engagement ring catching the light. The cameras followed her like she was royalty.
The PA system crackled.
"Good morning, competitors." Dr. Sterling's voice. "Welcome to the Praxis Prize semifinals. As you've noticed, we've implemented new security measures to ensure the integrity of this competition. Each booth is equipped with continuous video monitoring and a designated observer."
I glanced at the woman standing outside my door. Middle-aged, clipboard, neutral expression. She nodded once. I nodded back.
"The theme for today's competition is Transformation," Dr. Sterling continued. "You will find all necessary materials in your assigned booth. The use of any outside supplies will result in immediate disqualification. You may begin... now."
Locks clicked open. I tore the plastic off the brushes, hands already shaking with the need to start working.
Four hours. One canvas. Everything I had riding on this.
I blocked out rough lines in charcoal. A figure breaking through fractured glass, reaching toward light. Transformation. The word had been stuck in my head since they announced the theme. Wasn't that what I'd been trying to do? Transform from the girl who let herself be used into someone who could stand alone?
The work pulled me under the way it always did when everything else disappeared and there was just the canvas and my hands and the image trying to claw its way out of my head.
An hour passed. Then another.
I stepped back to check my progress and caught movement in my peripheral vision. Sloane's booth door opening. A woman in scrubs walked in carrying a thermal bottle and a small medical kit. She stayed maybe thirty seconds, said something to Sloane I couldn't hear through the glass, then left.
Probably nothing. Sloane was pregnant. Of course she needed someone checking on her.
But then it happened again thirty minutes later. Same woman. Another brief visit. And when she left, Sloane glanced at something in her hand—something small enough to palm—before tucking it away somewhere the camera couldn't see.
I forced myself to look back at my canvas. Don't let her distract you. That's what she wants.
But I couldn't shake it. Couldn't stop wondering what was being passed during those visits that had nothing to do with blood sugar or prenatal vitamins.
Lunch break came at hour two. Thirty minutes to grab food and use the bathroom. I took a water bottle and a granola bar to a corner where I could eat without making eye contact with anyone.
That's when I heard them. Two girls from the preliminaries, standing by the water cooler.
"I can't believe Sloane's even competing," one said. "She's four months pregnant and she had a fever yesterday."
"Her assistant has to check on her every hour. Blood sugar monitoring or something. The organizers gave special permission."
My water bottle crinkled in my grip.
Every hour. Those weren't random medical checks. They were scheduled. Regular. Approved.
And every time that door opened, it was a chance to pass information. To share what other competitors were working on. To coordinate.
I wanted to march over and demand proof that those visits were actually medical. But what would I say? The girl who'd accused Sloane of trying to drown her now thinks she's cheating again? Who would believe me?
The last two hours blurred together. I finished my piece—the fractured figure, the glass turning to wings—and knew it was good. Maybe the best thing I'd done under pressure.
But was it enough?
When the buzzer sounded, I set down my brush and felt something between relief and dread settle in my chest.
Done. For better or worse.
The judging took an hour. We stayed in our booths while the panel moved through the rows. When Dr. Sterling reached mine, she paused longer than she had at the others. Studied the canvas from three different angles. Her expression gave away nothing.
Finally they let us out. We gathered in the viewing area for results, and I stood near the back with my arms wrapped around myself, trying to prepare for disappointment while not quite killing the small, stupid flame of hope.
"Before we announce the results," Dr. Sterling began, "I want to acknowledge the unusual circumstances of this round. We've implemented the highest security measures in Praxis Prize history. We've also made necessary accommodations for participants with medical needs, always with full transparency and oversight."
Medical needs. Necessary accommodations. Each word felt like a justification for something that shouldn't need justifying.
"The judges were unanimous," Dr. Sterling continued. "The quality of work today exceeded our expectations. We can only advance six competitors to the finals."
She started reading names in reverse order. Sixth place. Fifth. Fourth—
"Elara Vance."
The sound hit me like cold water. Fourth. I was advancing, but barely.
And then—
"Sloane Kennedy, sixth place."