Chapter 57
Elara
The auditorium erupted into chaos. Camera flashes exploded like fireworks. Students raised phones, recording everything. Reporters surged toward the stage, shouting questions that collided into a wall of noise.
Sloane stood frozen center stage, her face drained of all color. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her body swayed slightly, as if the ground beneath her had turned to water.
Julian moved like a blade cutting through the crowd. He crossed the stage in three strides and positioned himself in front of her, his body blocking the cameras and microphones. His hand found her shoulder, steadying her.
"Deep breath," he said, voice low but firm. "Look at me. Everything will be fine."
Sloane's fingers clutched his arm, nails digging into the fabric of his suit. Tears welled in her eyes, then spilled over. "Julian... I don't know... those sketches..."
Her voice broke. Perfect timing. Perfect vulnerability.
Julian turned to face the crowd, his expression shifting from protective to authoritative in an instant. He stepped to the microphone, voice cutting through the noise with surgical precision.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Please remain calm."
The crowd quieted, responding to the command in his tone.
"The slides you just saw were displayed without authorization. This appears to be a technical malfunction." His gaze swept the auditorium with cold authority. "Regarding any questions about Ms. Kennedy's work, the Vane family and Kennedy family will form a joint investigation committee. We will provide an official response within forty-eight hours. Until then, I ask that you refrain from spreading unverified information."
His eyes flicked toward the control booth. When they landed on me, something flickered in their depths—anger, disappointment, something darker I couldn't name. Then his jaw clenched and he looked away.
He removed his charcoal suit jacket and draped it over Sloane's shoulders with practiced gentleness, the gesture intimate and protective. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, looking fragile and wounded.
They moved toward the backstage exit. Julian's arm encircled her waist, supporting her weight as if she might collapse without him.
They passed the control booth. Julian slowed for less than a second—not stopping, not looking at me, but his jaw tightened and his free hand clenched into a fist.
I stood alone at the control panel, surrounded by the chaos I'd created. Students pointed and whispered. A security guard approached, phone pressed to his ear.
Kevin, the tech student, burst through the side door. "What happened?! I was only gone a few minutes!"
I didn't answer. I was watching Julian and Sloane disappear through the backstage door—his jacket wrapped around her narrow shoulders, his body curved protectively over hers.
The contrast burned into my retinas: Sloane, rescued and shielded. Me, standing alone in a room full of people who wanted me gone.
---
By 10:00 PM, #SloanePlagiarism had hit number one on Twitter. Instagram exploded with over 500,000 posts. Every major art publication was running the story: "Rising Star Accused of Theft." "Kennedy Family Scandal." "Who Is E.C.?"
I sat on my mattress in the Iron District garage, laptop balanced on my knees. Yuki and Diego hovered nearby, concern written across their faces.
"Elara, are you okay?" Yuki asked softly.
I nodded without looking up. "I need to be alone for a bit."
They exchanged glances but retreated to their corners of the apartment.
I pulled up everything I could find on Mrs. Castellano: records from the Bronx Arts Community, a few small exhibition mentions, her obituary from a local paper in 2021. I documented it all—her studio address, the auction records where her work had been sold off cheaply after her death.
Tomorrow I would present this to the school, to the media. Tomorrow I would—
At 11:00 PM, the tide began to turn.
A prominent art blogger with 500,000 followers posted: "Wait—has anyone considered E.C. might be a pseudonym? Many artists use fake names on their preliminary sketches to protect their privacy."
Within minutes, several other verified accounts echoed the same theory. The comment sections filled with "rational" voices, drowning out the accusations.
At 1:00 AM, Sloane's official Instagram posted a statement.
The photo showed her in a dimly lit studio, sitting before the sketches of The Lonely Supper, her expression sorrowful and vulnerable.
The caption read:
"I never wanted to reveal this secret. E.C. is an artistic alias I created at fourteen—Elena Celeste—to protect my privacy and creative space. This painting began when I was fifteen, inspired by Julian. 'Per la memoria di J' means 'For the memory of Julian'—it commemorates the beautiful beginning of our story. I don't know how my private sketches were stolen and leaked, but I choose to forgive the person who questioned me. Perhaps she was simply misled. Art should bring beauty, not harm. #LoveAndArt #ForgivenessIsStrength"
The post hit one million likes within an hour. The comments overflowed with support:
"I knew it was a misunderstanding."
"Sloane is too kind."
"That girl who accused her is disgusting."
I tried to comment, to explain, to show more evidence. But my words drowned in a sea of attacks.
"You're the liar, aren't you?"
"Jealousy is so ugly."
"Poor people can't stand to see others succeed."
My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone.
---
The email arrived at 7:30 AM:
"Ms. Vance, please report to the Board Conference Room at 9:00 AM to address inappropriate conduct during yesterday's exhibition. Attendance is mandatory."
I arrived ten minutes early. A line of men in expensive suits stood outside the conference room—lawyers, I realized. My stomach dropped.
Inside, the setup was designed to intimidate.
At the head table: Dr. Pemberton, expressionless. Three board members, including Mr. Harrington, an older man with silver hair and gold-rimmed glasses.
At the left table: Sloane's legal team. The lead attorney, Marcus Sterling, was a man in his forties with sharp features and iron-gray hair. Three junior lawyers flanked him, tablets and documents spread before them.
At the right side: Sloane herself, wearing a simple beige sweater, no makeup, eyes slightly red. The picture of wounded innocence.
At the back, by the window: Julian. Arms crossed, one leg crossed over the other, reviewing documents. His presence dominated the room without a word.
I was directed to a single chair facing the entire table.
"Please sit, Ms. Vance," Mr. Harrington said.
I sat, spine straight, hands on my knees.
Sterling spoke first, voice professionally cold. "Ms. Vance, we represent Ms. Kennedy in lodging a formal complaint against your actions yesterday. You accessed technical equipment without authorization, displayed unverified materials, and engaged in malicious defamation that has severely damaged my client's reputation and mental health."