Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 186

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second …

Chapter 186

Elara

I hesitated in the stairwell, one hand gripping my supply case strap,

the other holding my phone with Raven’s warning messages glowing

on the screen. My instinct screamed to keep walking, to get out of

this building and back to the Bronx where I could breathe. But

another part of me–the part that had learned the hard way that

ignorance never protected you–needed to know what was happening.

I found an empty corner table in the self–service area, far from the

clusters of celebrating contestants, and sat down with my untouched

plate. The sushi had gone completely cold, the rice hardening at the

edges. I set my fork aside and pulled out my phone, my stomach

already tightening with dread.

Twitter loaded slowly, the spinning icon making my heart race. When

the feed finally appeared, Isabella’s post was right there at the top of

my mentions, posted less than an hour ago.

“Thank you to everyone who’s supported me through this journey. I

gave this competition everything I had–six years of training at

Parsons, every technique I’ve learned, every ounce of dedication I could muster. Coming in third place has taught me something important: there are some things that effort alone can’t overcome.

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Like the power of capital. #PraxisPrize #ArtistLife”

Two hundred and thirty–seven comments. My finger trembled as I

scrolled through them.

“Isabella you were amazing! Third place is still incredible!”

“The power of capital is real… but true artists won’t be defeated!”

“I get what you’re saying… the top two both have pretty deep

connections.”

The last comment had forty–three likes. I felt my throat constrict. She

hadn’t accused me directly–she was too smart for that. But the

implication hung there, perfectly crafted for her followers to run

with. The “six years at Parsons” emphasized her credentials. The

“effort alone can’t overcome” suggested the winners hadn’t earned it

through skill. And “power of capital” painted a picture of corruption

without her having to prove anything.

I kept scrolling, my hands getting colder with each comment. Then I

saw it–a retweet from @NYArtReview with 3.5K retweets and 8.2K

likes. Posted forty minutes ago.

“Observations and Reflections on the Praxis Prize Preliminary

Results.”

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The article link sat there, the headline reading: “Technique and

Emotion: The Delicate Balance in the Praxis Prize Preliminaries.”

Byline: Ethan Holt, Senior Editor.

My vision blurred at the edges. I clicked the link with a finger that

had gone numb.

The article opened with a disclaimer about objectivity—“As observers

of the contemporary art scene, we must approach emerging

competitions with both enthusiasm and critical rigor–but the

framing was anything but neutral. The first three paragraphs were

devoted entirely to Sloane.

*First place winner Sloane Kennedy’s ‘Phoenix Rising‘ demonstrates a

breathtaking command of technique. Her mastery of color theory,

compositional balance, and her contemporary interpretation of

classical painting methods all reveal an artist of exceptional maturity

and depth. This is, without question, a deserving first place.”

My hands clenched around the phone. Of course. Of course Ethan

would use his platform this way.

The article continued with measured praise for Isabella–Third place

Isabella Torres displays the solid foundation of six years at Parsons.

Her technical execution rivals that of Kennedy’s, with only a slight

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gap in thematic depth“-before pivoting to me.

“However, the second–place result raises questions worth discussing.

While the judges emphasized the work’s ‘emotional authenticity,‘ we

must acknowledge certain technical deficiencies. Rough brushwork,

thin layering, harsh color transitions–these are hallmarks of

insufficient foundational training.”

“Of course, we understand the judges may wish to encourage ‘raw

emotional expression. But should artistic standards accommodate

technical compromise? When a high school student’s work“-the

phrase was italicized, as if my age was somehow damning-“ranks

above two artists with years of professional training, we must ask: is

this an over–valorization of ‘sincerity,‘ or are other factors at play?”

“It’s worth noting that this contestant’s materials were damaged

before the competition–a circumstance that naturally evokes

sympathy. But did the judges award extra points for this unfortunate

incident? Art competitions should be based on the work itself, not the

creator’s circumstances.”

The conclusion twisted the knife: “We respect the judges‘ decision,

but hope the Praxis Prize maintains its traditionally high standards. True art should withstand the test of both time and professional

scrutiny.”

I read it twice, my vision sharpening with each word. Ethan had done

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exactly what I’d feared–dressed up his bias in the language of

objective criticism. He’d questioned my technical ability, suggested

my score was inflated by sympathy, and implied the judges had

compromised their standards. All while wrapping it in phrases like

“we must ask” and “worth discussing,” as if he were simply raising

legitimate concerns rather than undermining my legitimacy.

And he’d praised Sloane to the heavens. “Without question.”

“Exceptional maturity.” “Deserving.”

The article had been shared 3,547 times. The comments section was a

battlefield.

“Ethan Holt is being way too harsh! This article reeks of personal

bias!”

“But he has a point about the technique. I saw the photo–it IS rough.

Should sympathy really factor into scoring?”

“I looked at the work images. It’s raw, yeah, but the emotional impact

is undeniable. Isn’t that what art is supposed to do?”

Someone had started connecting dots: “Wait, isn’t Elara Vance the

Vane family foster daughter? And isn’t she involved with Julian Vane

somehow? This smells fishy.”

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Sloane’s fans had mobilized: “Our girl Sloane’s first place is 100%

deserved! Some people really think sympathy points equal talent.”

My phone buzzed–a text from Raven. “DO NOT read the comments.

I’m serious. Focus on the work.”

Too late. I’d already seen enough to know exactly what Ethan had

done. He’d built a narrative where Sloane was the obvious,

unquestionable winner and I was a questionable anomaly–a high

school kid who got lucky, whose damaged materials had earned me

pity points I didn’t deserve.

I took a screenshot of the article and texted it to Dr. Sterling with a

simple message: “You should know about this. The New York Art

Review’s coverage is already shaping public opinion.”

Her response came in ten seconds: “I saw it. This isn’t objective art

criticism–it’s an attack with a preset agenda. I’ll handle it.”

I set my phone face–down on the table, my hands shaking so badly I

had to clasp them together. Around me, the whispers had gotten

louder, less cautious. People weren’t even bothering to lower their

voices anymore.

“Did you see The New York Art Review piece? Guess there really was

something off…”

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“She’s still sitting there eating like nothing happened. The nerve.”

A girl at the next table held up her phone to her friend. “Even the

professional media is calling it out. You really think she earned that

second place?”

Her friend glanced at me, then quickly away. “I mean… if even Ethan

Holt is questioning it…”

Someone else, closer to the buffet line, laughed. “Technique

deficiencies but gets second place? Yeah, capital’s power is real all

right.”

A guy I vaguely recognized from the check–in area had his phone pointed in my direction. He muttered to his companion, “Gonna post

this on Instagram. ‘The contestant the professional media just called

out, in person.“”

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