Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 175

Chapter 175

Elara

More than that, I thought of the week I’d just spent. The hours of

practice until my arm ached and my eyes burned. The nights I’d fallen

asleep with paint under my fingernails, too exhausted to even wash

properly. I’d worked too hard for this moment to let them chase me

away.

I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and walked toward the

elevator. My path took me directly past them. I kept my gaze forward,

my steps steady, refusing to acknowledge their presence even though

I could feel Sloane’s eyes on me like needles pricking my skin.

The elevator doors closed, and I finally let myself sag against the

wall, my hands shaking so badly I had to clench them into fists to

make them stop.

The second–floor holding room was a large, bright space with floor-

to–ceiling windows and dozens of tables and chairs scattered

throughout. Prints of past winners‘ work hung on the walls–abstract

explosions of color, hyperrealistic portraits, installations captured in

photographs. About thirty competitors were already there, some

organizing supplies, some sketching in notebooks, some clustered in

small groups talking in low voices.

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I found a seat in the corner by the windows, set my supply kit on the

table, and started my final check. Brushes, paints, palette, turpentine

-everything in order. I was reaching for my water bottle when the

door opened again and several staff members entered, escorting

Julian and Sloane.

The room exploded into whispers.

“Oh my God, is that Julian Váne?”

“The Vane Group heir?”

“That’s Sloane Kennedy next to him, right? She competed in the last

major exhibition!”

“She’s pregnant, you can totally see the bump.”

‘I heard Vane Group and the Kennedy Group are both primary

sponsors for this competition.”

“So we don’t even have a chance, do we? It’s obviously rigged.”

“Exactly, the judges are definitely going to favor people they know.”

I sat in my corner, listening to the murmurs wash over me, feeling a sick twist in my stomach. I knew I’d only gotten this nomination

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because of Julian. But I also knew that if I couldn’t prove myself in

the actual competition, that connection would become a permanent

stain on my reputation. Every achievement would be dismissed as

nepotism. Every success would be questioned.

I forced myself to focus on my supplies, trying to ignore the whispers

and the presence of Julian and Sloane as they moved through the

room, staff members pointing out various features and explaining the

competition format. I didn’t look up.

“You’re Elara Vance?”

The voice came from directly beside me, startling me into looking up.

A man in his late twenties stood there, dressed in a navy suit with the

top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a delicate silver

necklace. His brown hair was slightly long, swept back casually, and

he wore black–framed glasses that failed to hide the sharp intelligence in his gray–blue eyes. He had the studied dishevelment of

an art critic–expensive clothes worn with deliberate carelessness,

the kind of look that said I’m too important to care about appearances

while actually caring very much.

I noticed the Omega watch on his wrist. Definitely not a struggling

artist.

He didn’t wait for me to answer before pulling out the chair next to

mine and sitting down, extending his hand. “Ethan Holt. I’m an editor

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at The New York Art Review and one of the special observers for this

competition.”

I hesitated, then shook his hand briefly. “Elara Vance.”

His mouth curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I

know. The one Julian Vane specifically nominated, right?”

His words carried across the room despite their conversational

volume, and I saw several nearby competitors turn to look at us with

expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed resentment.

My face burned, but I kept my voice steady. “Yes. But the competition

is live creation. I’ll let my work speak for itself.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that

made my skin prickle. “I look forward to it. Though I have to be

honest–I’ve seen a lot of people get in through connections in this

industry, and most of them prove to be unworthy of the opportunity.”

He paused, his gaze drifting across the room to where Sloane and

Julian were talking with the judges. Something flickered in his

expression when he looked at Sloane, something complicated and

quickly suppressed, but I couldn’t read it clearly enough to

understand what it meant.

His attention snapped back to me. “Miss Vance, I’ll be watching your

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performance very carefully. If you truly have talent, I’ll give you a fair

review in The New York Art Review. But if you’re just another person

riding on connections…” He let the threat hang unfinished in the air.

I took a deep breath and met his eyes directly. “Mr. Holt, I understand

your professional ethics. And I won’t deny that I got this opportunity

because of Mr. Vane’s nomination. But I’ve also worked hard to

prepare for this. I believe my work will prove I’m not wasting this

chance.”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if my directness had surprised him. He stood up, straightening his jacket. “Good. I’ll remember you said that.” He started to walk away, then paused and turned back, lowering his voice. “By the way, Miss Vance–in this industry, connections often matter more than talent. I don’t agree with it, but it’s reality. I hope you can break that rule.”

The words sounded like encouragement, but I saw the warning in his eyes. He was telling me that if I failed, he would be the first to write a

scathing review.

After Ethan left, I sat trying to calm my racing heart and refocus on my preparation. I was beginning to understand that this competition wasn’t just about beating other artists–it was about surviving scrutiny from the art world’s gatekeepers, people like Ethan who could make or break a career with a single review.

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A commotion from across the room interrupted my thoughts. “No, no,

no! How did this happen?”

I looked up to see a young woman–early twenties, dressed in a

simple black dress–crouched on the floor, frantically examining

scattered art supplies. Her supply kit lay open beside her, and a glass bottle of turpentine had fallen over, its cap missing. Clear liquid

pooled on the floor, and several brushes lay soaking in it.

She picked up the brushes with shaking hands, and I could see even

from a distance that the bristles were warped and damaged, some

already beginning to shed. “These are the only brushes I brought,” she

said, her voice breaking. “If they’re all ruined, how am I supposed to

compete?”

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