Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 179

Chapter 179

Elara

The last thirty minutes, I stopped thinking. My hand just moved. The

backup brushes felt wrong–too stiff, too short–but I didn’t have time

to fight it anymore. I painted a shattered window, glass suspended

mid–break. Some fragments held darkness. Others caught light. In the

biggest piece, a hand pushed through, palm up, holding a seed that

had already started to sprout. The roots wrapped around the sharp

edges, bleeding where they touched, but growing anyway.

Behind it all, storm clouds breaking apart. Light coming through in

hard slashes. I didn’t blend it smooth because I couldn’t with these

brushes, and then I realized I didn’t want to. The roughness fit.

When I put the brush down, my hands were shaking so bad I had to

press them against my legs. My eyes burned. I stared at the canvas

and thought: “This wasn’t for them. This was for me.”

Staff came through and took our paintings away. I watched mine disappear through a doorway and felt suddenly empty, like I’d given

away something I couldn’t get back.

Two and a half hours, they said. We shuffled back to the holding

room. I found a corner chair and dropped into it. My fingers were still

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covered in paint–blues, grays, that gold I’d used for the light.

“Hey.” Nora sat down next to me. “You okay? I saw your painting when

they took it. It was…” She stopped. “It was really something.”

“Thanks.” My face felt stiff. “I don’t know. The technique was probably

a mess.”

“Technique isn’t everything.”

She didn’t push, just sat there. Across the room, other competitors

huddled in groups, voices carrying.

“Kennedy’s piece was flawless. That perspective work? First place for

sure.”

“Obviously. She’s Sloane Kennedy.”

“Did you see the Vane girl though? She looked like she was having a

breakdown. Very emotional. The brushwork seemed rough.”

“Well, she had backup supplies.”

“If you’re really talented, shouldn’t you adapt? It looked sloppy to

me.”

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I kept my eyes on my hands. Didn’t react. The familiar weight of being

judged settled over me like I’d never left it behind.

Doesn’t matter what they think. You did what you could.

But my stomach didn’t believe me.

At four, they called us back. The painting stations were gone, replaced

by rows of chairs facing a stage. Judges sat in a line up front. The

screen behind them showed the Praxis Prize logo.

The audience had grown. Media with cameras. Parents clutching

programs. I spotted Julian and Sloane in the third row, his arm along

the back of her chair. Her hand rested on her pregnant belly. She was

smiling at something he’d whispered.

I looked away fast. Found a seat in the back. Less visible was better.

Dr. Sterling stood and walked to the microphone. Steel–gray hair,

sharp presence.

“Good afternoon. Thank you for your patience.” Her voice cut clear

through the room. “Fifty exceptional young artists competed today.

What we saw represents not just skill, but vision and courage.”

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She paused. Several competitors sat straighter.

“Our criteria: technical execution, thirty percent. Creative

interpretation and composition, twenty–five percent. Thematic

coherence, twenty–five percent. Emotional resonance and artistic

depth, twenty percent. Each judge scored independently. We

eliminated the highest and lowest to prevent outliers.”

My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans.

“We’re advancing the top twenty–five. Fifty percent. To build

suspense, we’ll announce in reverse order, starting with twenty–fifth

place.”

My chest tightened. Fifty percent should have felt safe. It didn’t.

“Twenty–fifth place, 7.2 points–Zoe Brown, Pratt Institute.”

Polite applause. A girl stood, looking half–relieved, half–disappointed.

“Twenty–fourth place, 7.3 points–Nora Miller, School of Visual Arts.”

Great! Nora made it through! I looked over at her and saw her jump

up with excitement. I watched the names tick by. Twenty–third.

Twenty–second. Twenty–first. My name didn’t come. By twentieth

place, people were whispering. By fifteenth, my heart was in my

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“Before we announce our top three,” Dr. Sterling said, “I want to

acknowledge something.”

I opened my eyes.

“These three works represent very different approaches to ‘Broken

and Reborn.‘ What you’re about to see demonstrates that artistic

excellence isn’t one narrow path.”

The screen behind her flickered. Three paintings appeared, too small

to see clearly from back here.

“Third place, 8.6 points–Isabella Torres, Parsons School of Design.”

Strong applause. A Latina woman in her mid–twenties stood up front,

Parsons hoodie, high ponytail. She walked to the stage like someone

used to winning.

“Thank you so much.” Her voice was warm, practiced. “I’m honored to

be here. A bit disappointed not to place higher“-she laughed-“but

being in the same competition as Sloane Kennedy is honestly reward

enough. Her work has been such an inspiration.”

The crowd loved it. Sloane inclined her head modestly. They were

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performing for each other, the art world elite recognizing their own.

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