Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 188

Chapter 188

Elara

His head snapped back toward me. “She didn’t-” He stopped himself.

“Sloane doesn’t need to ask me to do anything. I wrote that piece

because it needed to be written. Because someone needs to maintain

standards in a field that’s increasingly willing to prioritize emotion

over technique.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” The words came out gentler than I’d

intended. “That you’re doing this for art? For standards?” I took a

breath. “Or do you tell yourself that if you just keep proving your

loyalty–keep writing glowing reviews, keep attacking anyone who

might threaten her position—that maybe someday she’ll see you?

Really see you, the way she sees Julian?”

“Stop.” His hands were shaking now, both of them visible as he pulled

them from his pockets. “You don’t know anything about-”

“I know what it’s like to love someone who treats you like you’re

invisible,” I interrupted. “I know what it’s like to watch them choose

someone else, over and over, and still convince yourself that if you

just try hard enough, sacrifice enough, maybe they’ll finally turn

around and notice you’re there.”

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His face went pale. For a long moment he just stared at me. I saw my

own pain reflected back–the same desperate hope, the same bitter

resignation.

“You think you’ve figured something out,” he said finally. “You think

you understand. But you’re wrong about one thing.”

I waited.

“I don’t expect her to choose me.” The words came out flat, like he

was reciting a truth he’d long since accepted. “I never have. I know exactly what I am to her–a useful resource, someone who can help maintain her image, advance her career. I’m not deluded enough to

think it’s anything more than that.”

“Then why-”

“Because loving someone doesn’t require them to love you back.” He met my eyes directly now. “It just requires you to love them. And I do. I have for years, and I will for years more, probably. That’s not going to change just because she married Julian Vane. It’s not going to change even after they have their perfect family and their perfect life and I’m nothing but a name in her contacts she calls when she needs

favorable press coverage.”

My throat went tight. This was what I would become if I didn’t break

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free–this hollow acceptance, this willingness to be used as long as it meant staying close to someone who would never see me as anything

more than a tool.

“So yes,” Ethan continued, “I wrote that article. And yes, it was biased.

And yes, I will continue to write pieces that benefit Sloane Kennedy,

because that’s what I choose to do with my platform and my

influence. Not because she asked me to. Not because I think she’ll

reward me for it. But because making her happy is the closest I’ll ever

get to having her, and I’ve made my peace with that.”

“Mr. Holt,” I said quietly, “do you think this is what she wanted you to

become? Someone who compromises their integrity for her sake?”

His laugh was bitter. “You think I had integrity before her? You think

any of us do, in this world?” He gestured vaguely toward the

exhibition hall. “We’re all compromised, Miss Vance. We all serve

someone’s interests. I just happen to be honest about whose interests

I serve.”

“You’re destroying your credibility as a critic. Anyone who looks

closely enough will see the pattern–every artist you’ve torn down has been someone who posed a threat to Sloane’s position. Every glowing

review you’ve written has been for her or her allies. How long before the entire art world realizes you’re not a journalist anymore, just-

“Let them realize it.” His voice went cold. “I don’t care.”

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“You should care. You could be using your voice to actually champion

emerging artists, to push the field forward, instead of just propping

up someone who-”

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