Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 149

Chapter 149

Elara

I walked out of the café in a daze, my hands shaking so badly I had to

shove them into my coat pockets. The cold November air hit my face,

but I barely felt it. All I could think about was how stupid I’d been-

how could I have forgotten about the Praxis Award? In my previous

life, I’d wanted so desperately to enter it, had circled the deadline on

my calendar and dreamed about what it would mean to have my work

displayed at the Saatchi Gallery. And now, in this life, with a real

chance to change things, I’d let the deadline pass without even

thinking about it.

The registration had closed last week. One week. If I’d just paid

attention, if I hadn’t been so consumed with surviving Julian’s control

and Sloane’s schemes and Victoria’s constant attacks, I could have

submitted my application like anyone else. But I’d missed it, and now

my only option had been to ask Julian for help, and he’d-

God. The look on his face when I’d asked. Like I was some pathetic

copycat trying to compete with Sloane, trying to prove I was just as

good as his perfect pregnant fiancée. He hadn’t even considered that

maybe, just maybe, I wanted this for myself. That my art had nothing

to do with him.

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“Elara!”

I turned to see Raven jogging toward me from the direction of the

student cafeteria, her purple hair flying behind her. She was slightly

out of breath when she reached me, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Hey, I just got here,” she said, studying my face with immediate

concern. “I came as soon as I received the text. What happened? Your

text sounded weird.”

I’d sent her a message after leaving the café: “Need to talk. Can you

meet?”

“Julian said no,” I told her, my voice coming out flat. “About the Praxis

Award. He thinks I’m trying to copy Sloane.”

Raven’s expression darkened. “That fucking asshole. After everything

–” She shook her head sharply. “You know what? Forget him. We’ll

figure something else out.”

“Like what?” The words came out sharper than I intended. “The

deadline passed. It’s over.”

“It’s not over until we say it’s over,” Raven said firmly. She grabbed my

arm and started pulling me back toward the main building. “Come on.

Let’s go somewhere warm and actually think this through instead of

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giving up.”

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in an empty classroom on the

third floor of the arts building, the kind of space that nobody used

after two PM because the afternoon sun made it too bright and hot.

Raven had her laptop open on one of the desks, her fingers already

flying across the keyboard while I sat beside her, trying to pull myself

together.

“Okay,” Raven said, her eyes scanning the screen. “So the Praxis

International Young Artists Award. Registration closed last week, but

-” She clicked through several pages. “It’s sponsored by a bunch of

companies. Not just Vane Group. There’s got to be other ways in.”

I leaned over to look at her screen. She’d pulled up the award’s

official website, which listed all the corporate sponsors in neat rows. Technology companies, pharmaceutical corporations, investment firms–all with more money than I could imagine, all completely out

of reach.

“Raven, I don’t know anyone at these companies,” I said. “And even if I did, why would they give me a slot? They probably have their own

candidates already picked out.”

“Maybe,” Raven admitted, scrolling down. “But some of these are smaller. Private firms. They might be more flexible.” She paused, clicking on one entry. “Look at this one. Hartley Capital Partners.

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They specialize in arts and culture investments.”

She pulled up the company’s website, which was sleek and

minimalist, all black backgrounds and white text. Under “Managing

Partners,” there were three names listed. The second one made me

freeze.

Marcus Hartley.

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

Raven looked at me sharply. “What? You know him?”

“Sort of.” I was already pulling up the memory–that night at the Vanderbilt Club, weeks ago, when Julian had dragged me there and left me with his friends. Marcus had been one of them.”

Raven’s expression shifted from curious to worried. “The night Julian took you to that awful place? Elara, I don’t know if-”

“He might remember me,” I interrupted. “And if he does, maybe I can convince him to give me a shot at the slot. It’s better than nothing,

right?”

Raven bit her lip, clearly torn. ‘I don’t like it. These finance guys,

they’re all the same. They don’t do favors for free.”

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