Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 187

Chapter 187

Elara

I felt every gaze like a needle against my skin. My appetite—already

nonexistent–vanished completely. But I forced myself to take

another bite of sushi, to chew and swallow even though it tasted like

cardboard, because walking out now would look like guilt. Like I

couldn’t face what they were saying.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Raven: “People are

AWFUL. Don’t let them get to you.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My vision was starting to blur at the edges,

my breathing getting shallow. I needed to get out of here before I

broke down in front of everyone.

But then a clear voice cut through the murmur of judgment.

‘Did any of you actually read that article?”

I looked up. Nora was standing at her table, her face flushed but her

voice steady. She held her phone up like evidence.

“Seriously. Did you read it, or did you just see the headline and decide

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it confirmed what you already thought?”

A guy near her scoffed. “We read it. Ethan Holt’s a professional editor.

He’s allowed to have an opinion.”

“An opinion?” Nora’s voice went sharp. “A third of that article is

gushing about Sloane Kennedy. You don’t think that’s weird? For an

‘objective‘ analysis?”

She scrolled through her phone, her movements quick and angry. “I

looked him up on Twitter. You know who’s the only artist he follows

where he likes and retweets every single post? Sloane Kennedy. That’s

not professional journalism. That’s fan behavior.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some people pulled out their

phones, checking for themselves.

Nora wasn’t done. “And another thing–can any of you create a

second–place work after your brushes get cut and your paint gets

ruined? Dr. Sterling is a MOMA curator. Her professional judgment is

supposed to mean less than some editor who’s obviously got a

personal bias?”

She looked around the room, meeting people’s eyes, daring them to

argue. “You want to talk about fairness? How about the fact that

someone sabotaged Elara’s materials and she still placed? How about

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the fact that she had to paint with backup supplies she’d never used

before and still created something that moved people?”

I stared at her, my throat tight, my eyes burning. She glanced at me,

and I mouthed thank you. She ducked her head, embarrassed but

proud, and gave me a small nod before waving me toward the exit. Go,

she mouthed back.

I grabbed my supply case and stood up, my legs unsteady. At the trash

station, I dumped my barely–touched plate, watching the food slide

into the bin like everything else I couldn’t stomach today. Then I

headed for the restroom corridor, needing somewhere quiet,

somewhere I could breathe without an audience analyzing my every

move.

I’d just cleared the buffet area threshold when I heard footsteps

behind me.

“Miss Vance? Could I have a few minutes of your time?”

I recognized Ethan’s voice immediately–smooth, polite, with an

undercurrent of something harder. I didn’t stop walking. “Sorry, I

have somewhere to be.”

“Just a few minutes. His footsteps quickened. ‘I’d like to interview

you about today’s results.”

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I stopped but didn’t turn around. My jaw was so tight it hurt. “I saw

your article, Mr. Holt.”

He came around to face me, adjusting his black–framed glasses. Those

gray–blue eyes studied me with the same cool assessment I’d seen in

the stairwell when he’d looked at my painting. “Then you should

understand—I’m simply fulfilling my responsibility as an art critic.

Objective analysis.”

I finally met his gaze. “Objective? You spent three paragraphs

praising Sloane Kennedy. That’s objective?”

His smile was thin, not reaching his eyes. “Because her work

genuinely deserves praise. The technique is flawless, the concept

profound. Those are facts.”

“And your assessment of my work-‘rough brushwork,‘ ‘thin layering,‘

‘harsh color transitions‘–those are facts too?” My voice stayed level,

but I felt my control fraying at the edges.

“Aren’t they?” He tilted his head slightly. “Dr. Sterling herself

acknowledged your technical limitations.”

“She also said art isn’t just technique. But that didn’t make it into

your article, did it?”

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“My article focuses on technical standards.” His tone was

maddeningly calm. “That’s The New York Art Review’s consistent

editorial position.”

I took a breath, trying to steady myself. “Are you sure your motivation

is ‘maintaining artistic standards, Mr. Holt?”

Something flickered in his expression. “What are you implying?”

“Or is it about Sloane?”

The polite smile vanished. His voice dropped. “I don’t know what

you’re talking about.”

“The stairwell conversation. Yesterday afternoon, around 3:20. You

and Sloane Kennedy.”

I watched Ethan’s jaw tighten. His hand, still buried in his coat pocket, clenched into a fist–the fabric pulled taut over his knuckles.

“You were eavesdropping on a private conversation?” His voice dropped, losing that measured critic’s tone.

I shook my head. “I was passing by. But now I understand why you wrote that article.” I paused. “It wasn’t about maintaining artistic

standards at all, was it?”

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His eyes narrowed behind those black–framed glasses. For a moment I

thought he might deny it again. Then he tilted his head slightly.

“What exactly do you think you heard, Miss Vance?”

Not what did you hear, but what do you think you heard. Already

preparing to reframe it, reinterpret it. I’d seen Julian do the same

thing a hundred times. Watched Sloane perfect it.

“Enough,” I said. “I heard her tell you to keep your distance. To make sure no one sees you together. I heard her remind you that she’s

Julian’s fiancée now, and that you need to be careful.”

His face went blank, but his breathing changed–shorter, shallower.

“You’re making assumptions,” he said finally. “Sloane and I are colleagues. We work in the same circles. It’s natural that we’d-”

“You love her.” The words came out before I could stop them. And

watching his face–watching something break behind his eyes, just

for a second–I knew I was right. “You’ve loved her for a long time.”

He turned away slightly, one hand coming up to adjust his glasses.

When he spoke again, his voice was so low I had to strain to hear it.

“That’s none of your business.”

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“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not. But it does explain the article. And it

explains why you’re so determined to tear me down–because she

asked you to, didn’t she?”

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