Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 180

Chapter 180

Elara

Two seconds of silence. Then the room exploded.

“What?”

“The high school student?”

“She beat Isabella Torres?”

“How is that even possible?”

I couldn’t move. My name. She’d said my name. Second place. 8.9

points. The words wouldn’t connect in my brain.

Isabella had turned around, her face shocked and offended. Julian was

half out of his seat, white–faced. Sloane gripped her armrest, knuckles

white.

Ethan sat a few rows back, pen frozen over his notebook.

“Miss Vance?” A staff member appeared beside me. “Please come up.”

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I stood. My legs didn’t feel real. The walk to the stage happened

through a blur of faces–some congratulatory, others skeptical,

hostile. All of them watching. I was aware of my paint–stained

fingers, my cheap clothes, how I didn’t belong here.

Dr. Sterling handed me the certificate. Her grip was firm.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. “You earned this. Don’t let anyone

convince you otherwise.”

I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice. Somehow made it back to my seat

without falling.

“And finally,” Dr. Sterling announced, “first place, 9.3 points–Sloane

Kennedy.”

The applause was strong but muted, like people were still processing

what just happened. Sloane stood, Julian’s hand at her back. She

looked perfect. Pregnancy glow, warm smile, utterly convincing.

“Thank you all so much.” Her voice was confident and modest. “This

has been incredible. To be here with so many talented artists-” Her

eyes found me, held too long. “Including some very surprising new

voices–is truly humbling.”

She turned toward me, extending her hand. It looked magnanimous if

you didn’t know better.

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“Elara, congratulations. Your progress has been quite remarkable.”

I stood again. Walked forward. Every eye tracked me. When I took her

hand, her fingers were ice–cold.

“Thank you, Sloane,” I said. My voice was steady. “Your work is always

so polished.”

So technically perfect it loses any human feeling, I didn’t add.

Her grip tightened before she let go. Her smile never wavered. But I

saw what flashed in her eyes–cold fury, barely controlled.

We went back to our seats. Dr. Sterling started talking about the

semifinal round. I barely heard over the roaring in my ears. Second

place. They’d said my work had “extraordinary artistic depth.” Things

like this didn’t happen to girls like me.

I was still trying to process when Isabella Torres stood up. Her chair

scraped loud against the floor.

“Excuse me.” Her voice cut through Dr. Sterling’s remarks. Every eye

turned. “I have something I need to say.”

Dr. Sterling paused, looking surprised. “Yes, Miss Torres?”

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Isabella faced the room. Her expression was controlled but her eyes

blazed. “I want to be clear–I’m not questioning the judges‘ expertise.

But I think we deserve to understand the reasoning behind today’s

results.”

She let that hang before continuing. Her gaze locked on me.

“Elara Vance is a high school student. No formal art school training.

No exhibition history. No professional portfolio.” Her voice stayed

level but each word landed like an accusation. “I spent four years in

undergrad and two years in grad school at Parsons. I trained under internationally recognized artists. I’ve had work in a dozen juried exhibitions. My technical foundation, my theoretical knowledge, my art history background–all from years of dedicated study.”

The room went silent. My face burned.

“I can accept losing to Sloane Kennedy,” Isabella continued. “She’s known. Her talent has been recognized and validated. But to place below someone with no credentials, no track record, no proof of consistent ability?” She shook her head. “I need to understand how that’s justified. What exactly did her piece demonstrate that mine

lacked?”

The word proof cut deepest. Like my existence here needed justification. Like the painting itself–the thing I’d poured myself into -wasn’t evidence enough.

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Dr. Sterling’s expression hardened, almost disappointed. “Miss Torres,

I appreciate your passion, but-”

“I’m not finished.” Isabella’s professional veneer cracked. Real outrage

underneath. “I want to see it. Her painting. I want everyone here to

see what supposedly justifies placing a complete unknown above

someone with my training and experience.”

The murmurs swelled into open conversation. My name repeated.

Speculation about cheating, manipulation. Questions about my

connection to Julian Vane, whether that influenced the scoring.

I sat frozen. Certificate clutched in numb hands. The achievement I’d

barely started to process was being torn apart in front of hundreds of

people.

“Here we go again,” I thought distantly. “The part where they decide I

don’t deserve anything good.”

The murmurs swelled into a wave of conversation. Isabella’s voice cut

through again, louder now, with an edge of desperation beneath the

professional veneer.

“I respect the judges‘ expertise, truly I do,” she said, turning to

address the audience as much as the panel. “But I need to understand.

What exactly did her piece demonstrate that mine lacked? I spent

Chapter 180

four

years in undergrad and two years in grad school at Parsons. I trained under internationally recognized artists. I’ve had work in a dozen juried exhibitions.” Her hand gestured toward me, sharp and accusatory. “She’s a high school student. No formal art school training. No exhibition history. No professional portfolio.”

Each word landed like a stone. I felt myself shrinking in my seat, the certificate crumpling slightly in my grip. Around me, other competitors shifted, some nodding in agreement, others watching with barely concealed schadenfreude

“I can accept losing to Sloane Kennedy,” Isabella continued, her voice rising with genuine outrage now. “She’s established. Her talent has been recognized and validated. But to place below someone with no credentials, no track record, no proof of consistent ability?” She shook her head, and I saw tears of frustration gathering in her eyes. “I want to see it. Her painting. I want everyone here to see what supposedly justifies placing a complete unknown above someone with my training and experience.”

The word proof cut deepest. Like my existence here needed justification. Like the painting itself–the thing I’d poured myself into, the piece of my soul I’d given away–wasn’t evidence enough.

Dr. Sterling’s expression hardened. She stepped forward, her voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “Miss Torres, I appreciate your passion for your craft, but questioning the integrity of this

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judging panel-”

“I’m not questioning your integrity,” Isabella interrupted, though her tone suggested otherwise. “I’m asking for transparency. If this

competition is truly about merit, then show us the merit. Let

everyone see what makes her work worth 8.9 points when mine only

earned 8.6.”

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