Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 191

Chapter 191

Elara

Shortly after the official statement was released, Isabel Torres posted

a message on social media.

Her tweet was perfectly calibrated, every word chosen with surgical

precision: “Thank you @PraxisPrize for your response. I respect the

judges‘ decision and understand the multifaceted nature of artistic evaluation. I will continue to work hard and let my art speak for itself.

#NeverGiveUp”

The photo she’d attached showed her in a Parsons classroom, surrounded by other students, natural light streaming through industrial windows. She stood at an easel, brush in hand, her expression focused and serene. The image radiated legitimacy, dedication, years of professional training distilled into a single frame.

The comments section was already filling up.

“Isabella you’re too kind! If it were me I would’ve torn them apart!”

“Six years at Parsons and you lose to a high school student… I don’t

care what anyone says, that’s not right.”

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“This is exactly how capital works. Regular people can work their

entire lives and still lose to someone with connections. It is what it

is.”

“Your grace in defeat shows more character than some people’s

‘victory.‘ We see you queen.”

I scrolled through hundreds of similar responses, my chest tightening

with each one. Isabella herself hadn’t replied to any of them, hadn’t

liked or retweeted a single comment. She’d simply posted her statement and stepped back, letting her supporters do the work for

her.

It was brilliant, in a nauseating way. She’d positioned herself as gracious and professional while her fans tore me apart in the comments. She got to maintain the moral high ground while still feeding the narrative that I didn’t deserve my placement.

“Elara?” Mama’s voice came from the doorway. “It’s not even seven

yet. Why are you awake?”

“Just checking something.” I locked my phone screen, but not before

she saw the tension in my face.

“More trouble?” She came in and sat on the edge of my bed, her

cleaning uniform already on for her early shift. “Maybe you should

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just… let this go. Focus on school, on-”

“I can’t let it go, Mamá. This is my future.”

She sighed, reaching out to smooth my hair the way she used to when

I was small. “I know. I just hate seeing you hurt.”

After she left for work, I forced myself to get ready for school, each

movement mechanical. The subway ride to St. Valerius felt longer

than usual, every station a reminder that I was heading back into a

place where everyone would have seen Isabella’s post, where

everyone would have formed their opinions.

I was right to be worried.

The moment I walked through the school gates, I felt it–the shift in

atmosphere, the way conversations stopped when I passed, the

phones that turned in my direction. Emily caught up with me near my

locker, her expression tight with concern.

“Don’t go to the main entrance after school,” she said quietly.

“Why not?”

“Just… trust me. Use the east exit, the one by the art building.”

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She hurried off before I could ask more questions, leaving me with a

knot of anxiety in my stomach that only grew tighter as the day

progressed. In every class, I caught whispers, saw the screenshots on

other students‘ phones. Isabella’s gracious tweet. The comments

calling me a fraud. The renewed speculation about my relationship

with Julian.

By the time the final bell rang, I’d almost convinced myself Emily was

overreacting. Then I walked toward the main entrance and saw them.

A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk just beyond school property-

maybe thirty people, mostly young women in their twenties, holding

hand–painted signs. “DEFEND REAL ARTISTS.” “PRAXIS PRIZE:

EXPLAIN YOURSELVES.” “ART IS WORK, NOT PRIVILEGE.”

Several of them had set up phones on tripods, livestreaming to their

followers. I recognized a few faces from Instagram–popular art

students with thousands of followers, influencers who covered the

New York art scene.

I froze in the doorway, my backpack suddenly feeling impossibly

heavy.

“There she is!” someone shouted.

Heads turned. Phones swiveled in my direction. A woman in a Parsons

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sweatshirt stepped forward, her expression a mix of righteousness

and anger.

“Elara Vance? We just want to talk to you about the competition.”

I should have turned around. Should have listened to Emily and used

the east exit. Instead, something stubborn and tired and angry made

me walk forward.

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