Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 177

Chapter 177

Elara

When I returned to the holding room ten minutes later, the first two

batches of competitors had already been called to the competition

floor. The room felt emptier, quieter, the remaining participants

absorbed in their own pre–performance rituals–some sketching

warm–up studies, others sitting with eyes closed in meditation, a few

pacing nervously near the windows.

At one o’clock sharp, a staff member called for the fifth batch–my

group. My heart kicked against my ribs as I stood, slinging my supply

kit over my shoulder. Nine other artists rose with me, and we filed out

of the holding room in tense silence, following the staff member

down a corridor and through a set of double doors into the main

competition hall.

The space took my breath away. It was a massive open studio with

ceilings that soared at least twenty feet high, three walls of floor–to-

ceiling windows flooding the room with natural light. Ten large easels

stood in a row, spaced about six feet apart, each accompanied by a

work table that held the standardized supplies provided by the

organizers: a 24×32 inch linen canvas already primed and stretched, a palette, three water cups, several rags, and an adjustable task lamp for supplemental lighting. Competitors were expected to bring their

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own paints, brushes, and specialized tools–the materials that

reflected our individual techniques and preferences.

The judges‘ panel sat at the front of the room on a raised platform—

five people whose expressions ranged from professionally neutral to

mildly curious. I recognized one of them as a curator from the

Museum of Modern Art, another as the editor–in–chief of Art Forum.

These were the gatekeepers of the New York art world, the people

whose opinions could make or break an emerging artist’s career.

The audience section wrapped around the sides and back of the

studio, with seating for about a hundred people. It was already two-

thirds full, and I didn’t need to turn around to know that Julian,

Sloane, and Ethan were somewhere in that crowd, watching.

The host–a woman in her mid–forties wearing a crisp black pantsuit

-stepped forward with a microphone. Her voice was clear and

businesslike as she outlined the rules: “Welcome to the Praxis Prize

preliminary round. The format is as follows: First, all competitors will

receive the same prompt, drawn randomly. Second, you have three

hours to complete your work. Third, no reference materials or

electronic devices are permitted. Fourth, all work must be completed

independently on–site, with zero tolerance for plagiarism or proxy

creation. Fifth, judges will score based on originality, technical

execution, thematic expression, and visual impact. The top fifty

percent will advance to the finals. Please take your positions.”

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I walked to my assigned station–number B–47, toward the right side

of the row–and set my supply kit on the work table. My hands were

steadier than I’d expected as I opened the kit and began arranging my

materials. I started with the palette, then reached for my paint tubes, planning to squeeze out my usual working colors: titanium white,

cadmium yellow, deep red, ultramarine blue, emerald green.

But when I twisted open the first tube and gave it a gentle squeeze, something was immediately wrong. The paint that emerged was too thin, almost watery, with a consistency that reminded me of paint that had been cut with excessive turpentine. The smell hit me next- sharp and chemical, nothing like the rich, slightly oily scent of professional–grade paint straight from the tube.

My stomach dropped.

I grabbed the second tube and squeezed a small amount onto my finger. Same problem. Too thin. Wrong texture. The third tube, my deep red, was even worse: the paint came out in clumps, separated and grainy, as though someone had deliberately contaminated it with incompatible mediums.

My hands began to shake. I moved through the rest of my colors systematically, a growing sense of dread settling over me like a physical weight. My ultramarine blue had turned into a muddy gray- blue, clearly mixed with another pigment. My burnt umber was so thick it was nearly solid. Every single tube had been tampered with.

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Then I checked my brushes. The three main brushes I relied on for

nearly everything had all been cut. Not damaged accidentally, but

deliberately trimmed with scissors, their bristles shortened from their

original length of about an inch to barely a quarter–inch, rendering

them essentially useless for the kind of controlled, layered work I’d

been practicing all week.

I stood there, staring at the sabotaged materials spread across my

work table, and for a moment my mind went completely blank. I’d

trained with these exact materials every single day for the past week,

memorizing the way each brush responded to pressure, the drying

time of each color, the exact ratio of medium to pigment that gave me

the effects I needed.

Now they were ruined. All of them.

I raised my hand, signaling the host. She noticed immediately and

walked over, her professional smile flickering with concern as she

took in my expression.

‘Miss Vance? Is there a problem?”

My voice came out thinner than I’d intended, though I fought to keep

it steady. “My materials have been tampered with. The paints have

been contaminated with solvents or other substances, and my

brushes have been deliberately damaged.”

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The words seemed to echo in the sudden silence that fell over the

competition floor. I was acutely aware of the other competitors

pausing in their preparations to stare, of the audience shifting

forward in their seats, of the judges exchanging glances.

The host moved to my work table and picked up one of the paint

tubes, squeezing a small amount onto her finger. Her expression

shifted immediately as she caught the chemical smell and felt the

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