Chapter 46
Elara
After we hung up, I sat in the quiet kitchen for a long time, staring at my hands.
Someone believed in me. Someone who wasn't family, wasn't paid to care, wasn't tangled up in the Vane family web.
Someone just... believed.
I stood up, suddenly energized despite my exhaustion. Moved to my tiny room—barely big enough for a twin bed and a dresser—and opened my art supply box.
Fresh canvas. Brushes. Oils.
I set up my workspace by the window: a rickety folding table someone had left in the hallway, a desk lamp I'd bought at a thrift store.
This time, I won't leave my work at school. I'll keep it here, in my room, until the day of the exhibition.
And I'll create something so unique, so undeniably mine, that no one can replicate it.
Let's see how Sloane handles that. Let's see how the "contemporary Picasso" performs when she has nothing to steal.
I picked up a pencil and began sketching on the canvas. Rough outlines. A figure—ambiguous, abstract. Half in light, half in shadow. Reaching toward something. Or pulling away from it.
Hours passed. Maria went to bed, her worried glances through my doorway eventually fading as exhaustion claimed her. The sounds of the street gradually quieted—the rumble of traffic, the shouts of kids playing, the thump of bass from someone's car stereo.
But I kept working.
The figure began to take shape. A woman. Wings—but broken, fragmented, falling away. One hand clutching at empty air. The other pressed against her chest, where her heart should be.
It was me.
It was Lily.
It was every woman who'd ever had her voice stolen, her work claimed by someone else, her pain dismissed as hysteria.
Around two in the morning, I finally stepped back, squinting at the rough composition through bleary eyes.
My fingers were covered in charcoal and paint. My back ached. But for the first time in days—maybe weeks—I felt something like clarity.
I glanced at my phone, sitting silent on the dresser.
No calls from Julian. No texts from Blackwood.
Just silence.
I picked up my brush, dipped it in burnt umber, and added another shadow to the figure's face.
"Sloane," I whispered to the empty room, "I can't wait to see your panicked face when you realize you have nothing to present. The 'genius' without her ghost painter... what will you be then?"
The canvas seemed to glow in the lamplight, raw and unfinished but already powerful.
I worked until the sky outside began to lighten, until exhaustion finally forced my hand to still.
Then I collapsed onto my bed, fully clothed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
I slept less than four hours.
Mamá woke me at six, her worried face hovering over my bed like a ghost. "Elara, you need to eat something before school."
I dragged myself up, every muscle aching from hunching over the canvas until two in the morning. The abstract self-portrait sat propped against the wall, still drying—a fractured figure reaching toward nothing, wings broken and falling away. Looking at it made my chest tight.
But there was no time to dwell. I pulled on jeans and a sweater, grabbed my backpack, and headed out into the Bronx morning.
The bodega on the corner sold stale bagels and burnt coffee for three dollars. I ate standing at the counter, watching the neighborhood wake up—delivery trucks rumbling past, kids in uniform dragging their feet toward the subway, a woman in scrubs yawning as she waited for the bus.
Normal people. Living normal lives.
The subway to Manhattan was packed during rush hour. I wedged myself between a man in a suit scrolling through his phone and a teenager with headphones blasting music loud enough to rattle my bones. Nobody looked at me. Nobody cared.
It felt like freedom.
---
St. Valerius Academy appeared through the morning haze like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on the day. Spires, manicured lawns, wrought-iron gates that whispered exclusivity with every creak.
I walked through those gates at 7:45 AM, and the first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the usual hum of gossip and laughter. Not the sharp whispers that had followed me for days. Just... quiet.
Students clustered near the main entrance scattered as I approached, putting at least ten feet between us. A group of sophomore girls stopped mid-conversation, their eyes flicking to me before they turned away, suddenly fascinated by their phones.
By the announcement board, two senior boys I'd never spoken to abruptly ended their discussion and walked off in opposite directions.
It was like I'd become radioactive.
Not because they respected me. Because they feared the Vane name.
Vane Group's statement had bought me this—a buffer zone of enforced politeness. They weren't afraid of me. They were afraid of crossing Julian.
Emily appeared near my locker, hovering awkwardly. "Hey, Elara... you okay?"
Her voice was tight. Careful. Like she was talking to a bomb.
"I'm fine." I opened my locker, ignoring the way her eyes darted around, checking who might be watching us talk.
"That's... that's good." She shifted her weight. "I just wanted to say—I mean, if you need anything—"
"I'm fine," I repeated.
She bit her lip. "Okay. Well. Take care."
And then she was gone, practically speed-walking down the hall.
I stood there for a moment, staring into my locker. At the neatly stacked textbooks, the spare sweater, the emergency granola bars.
This is better, I told myself. No one bothering me means I can focus on Founders' Day. It's better to be alone than to be targeted.
I grabbed my calculus book and headed to class.
---
The morning passed in a blur of avoidance and whispers.
In calculus, the teacher called on me to solve a derivatives problem. I answered correctly, my voice steady. But when I sat down, nobody reacted. No murmurs of approval or resentment, no exchanged glances.
Just silence.
In English, the teacher assigned group work. I ended up working alone while everyone else paired off, their eyes sliding past me like I was furniture.
By lunch, my jaw ached from clenching it.
I skipped the cafeteria entirely and headed to the art building's outdoor terrace—a small courtyard with a few benches, usually deserted this time of year. The October wind was sharp, but I preferred cold over crowds.
I sat on a bench tucked behind a dying oak tree, unwrapped the turkey sandwich Mamá had packed, and pulled out my phone. Ms. Rivera had emailed me the technical requirements for Founders' Day: canvas size, framing options, lighting considerations.
I was halfway through the document when I heard footsteps.
Expensive footsteps. The kind that came with Italian leather shoes.
I looked up.
Tristan stood there, backlit by the autumn sun, looking like he'd stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Beige cashmere sweater. Khaki slacks. Gold-rimmed glasses catching the light just so. In one hand, he held a Starbucks cup. In the other, a paper bag from that overpriced macaron place on Madison Avenue.
He smiled. Warm. Apologetic. Completely, utterly fake.
"Elara," he said, sitting down across from me without asking. "I know you probably don't want to see me."
I said nothing. Just watched him set the coffee and macarons on the bench between us.
"But I had to apologize." His voice was soft, earnest. "What I did the other day—grabbing you like that, saying those things—it was inexcusable. I've been reflecting, and I realize I was completely out of line."