Chapter 175
Elara
The applause sounded far away. I'd beaten her. Not by much, but I'd scored higher than Sloane Kennedy.
Which meant I'd just made the finals infinitely more dangerous.
Through the crowd, I watched Sloane accept congratulations. She looked gracious, humble, one hand resting on her stomach. But when her eyes found mine, the mask slipped.
What I saw wasn't anger. It was colder than that. Calculated. Like she'd expected this. Planned for it.
She started moving toward me, and I made myself hold still instead of running.
"Congratulations," she said, loud enough for people nearby to hear. Her hand came to rest on her belly. "Fourth place is wonderful. You must be so proud."
"Thank you. Congratulations to you as well."
"I have to admit, I'm disappointed in my placement." Her smile didn't waver. "I've been holding back, you know. Pacing myself because of my condition. But the finals..." She paused. "The finals, I won't have that luxury. I'll need to give everything. No more being cautious. No more mistakes."
The threat was clear. She'd been playing with me. Now the real competition would start.
"I look forward to it," I said, matching her smile. "A fair competition. May the best artist win."
Her eyes narrowed slightly at the word "fair."
"Of course. Though I do hope you'll be more careful this time. It would be such a shame if anything... happened to your materials again. The organizers have done so much to ensure security, but accidents do still occur."
Not quite a threat. Nothing I could prove. Just a reminder that she could still reach me.
She drifted away, absorbed back into her cluster of supporters. I stood there, fourth place certificate in my hand, watching her go.
The crowd was thinning. People gathering their things, heading for the exits. I needed to do the same.
But first—
I glanced around. Most of the competitors had already left. The judges were in a huddle by the far wall, discussing something in low voices. A few staff members were starting to pack up equipment.
The glass booths stood empty now, doors propped open for cleaning crews.
Including Sloane's.
I started walking, trying to look casual. Like I was just wandering, taking one last look at the competition space. My booth was in row three. Hers was in row one. Not that far. Just a few steps.
I made it to the second row before anyone noticed.
"Excuse me, miss." A security guard stepped into my path. Young guy, probably my age, with the kind of polite-but-firm expression they must teach in security training. "Competition area is closed. You need to head to the exit."
"I know, I just—I think I left something in my booth." I gestured vaguely toward row three. "Just need to grab it real quick."
"All personal items were collected during the final sweep. If something's missing, you can file a claim with the front desk."
"It's just a brush. A specific one. It was my grandmother's." The lie came easily. Too easily. "It has sentimental value."
"I'm sorry, but I can't let you back into the competition area. Security protocol." He pulled out a tablet, swiped through a few screens. "What's your booth number?"
"3-C."
More swiping. Then he turned the screen toward me. Security footage, split into four angles, showing my booth. Showing me packing up. Showing me leaving with my portfolio case and nothing else.
"As you can see, you removed all your belongings. There's nothing left in booth 3-C."
My face went hot. "I must have been mistaken."
"It happens." His tone was sympathetic but unyielding. "Stressful day. Easy to forget what you've already packed. But I'm going to need you to head to the exit now."
A second guard had appeared on my other side. Older woman, less sympathetic expression.
"Is there a problem?" she asked.
"No problem," the first guard said. "Just helping Ms. Vance find her way out."
They didn't touch me. Didn't need to. Just stood there, bracketing me, making it clear I had no choice but to leave.
I turned and walked toward the exit, my face burning. Behind me, I heard the woman speak into her radio: "We've got a lingerer in section two. Competitor trying to access closed booths. Situation resolved."
The warehouse doors closed behind me with a heavy clang. I stood on the sidewalk, portfolio case digging into my shoulder, and stared back at the building.
The evidence was in there. Whatever Sloane's assistant had been passing her, whatever advantage she'd been cultivating during those hourly visits—it was all in that booth. But I couldn't get to it. Couldn't prove anything.
The security had been designed to protect us. To prevent sabotage. But it also meant I couldn't investigate. Couldn't gather proof of what I knew—what I "knew"—was happening.
I pulled out my phone, thought about calling someone. But who? Raven would tell me to let it go, focus on the finals. Mom would worry. Julian would—
No. I wasn't calling Julian. I'd told him I needed to do this alone, and I meant it.
I opened my email instead, started typing to Dr. Sterling. Then stopped. What would I say? "I think Sloane's assistant was passing her information during medical check-ins, but I have no proof and the security footage probably just shows them talking?"
I deleted the draft.
A text came through. Raven: "How'd it go???"
Me: "Made it to finals. 4th place."
Raven: "HOLY SHIT!!! That's amazing! Celebration dinner?"
Me: "Can't tonight. Need to prep for finals."
Raven: "You just finished semifinals. Take one night off."
Me: "Can't. Sloane placed 6th. She's going to come at me hard in the finals."
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Raven: "Then we definitely need to celebrate tonight. You beat Sloane Kennedy. You BEAT her. Let yourself feel good about that for five seconds."
I looked back at the warehouse. At the glass walls I could just barely see through the entrance windows. At the booths where we'd been contained and observed and judged.
Sloane had advantages I couldn't match. Connections I'd never have. And now, apparently, some kind of information pipeline I couldn't prove existed.
But I'd still beaten her.
Fourth to her sixth.
Not a huge margin. But enough.
Me: "Okay. One dinner. But somewhere cheap."
Raven: "Deal. Mexican restaurant near your home? 7pm?"
Me: "See you there."
I hit send and looked up, already turning toward the subway station.
And stopped.
Julian was leaning against his car. He looked terrible. Pale, with shadows under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loosened. I'd never seen him look so undone.
He straightened when he saw me, but didn't move closer. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me.
"Congratulations," he said. His voice was quiet, rough. "On making the finals."
"Thank you." The words came out automatically, formal. Like we were strangers.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. The expression made him look even paler, if that was possible. He took a step toward me, then his face went strange. His hand shot out toward the car like he was trying to catch himself, but his knees buckled.
I dropped my portfolio case and lunged forward, catching him under the arms before he hit the pavement. His weight nearly took us both down.
"Julian!" My heart was hammering. "What's wrong? What happened?"
He was leaning heavily against me, his breathing shallow. Up close, I could see the fine tremor in his hands, the way his skin had gone clammy.
"I'm fine," he said, but his voice was weak. "Just stood up too fast."
"Bullshit. If you don't tell the truth, I'm done with you forever!"