Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 70

Chapter 70

Elara

October 29th, 4:00 PM. St. Valerius Academy’s art office smelled of

linseed oil and ambition. I clutched the oversized portfolio case

against my chest, fingers white–knuckled around the handle, as Ms.

Rivera flipped through my submission–sketches, oil paintings

photographed in harsh garage light, creation notes scrawled in

margins.

Her eyes softened with something like approval. “Elara, tomorrow’s

exhibition is crucial. You should leave your work here tonight. We

have professional mounting systems, gallery lighting—”

“Thank you, Ms. Rivera.” My voice came out polite but immovable.

“But I’ll bring it myself tomorrow morning.”

Her gaze lingered on my grip–the way my knuckles had gone

bloodless. “The exhibition opens at eight. Portfolio review starts at

nine. You’re in Section C.”

Section C. Not the VIP zone. Not even close.

I nodded and turned toward the hallway. Through the glass display

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case, Victoria’s name gleamed on the A–section roster–center stage,

prime lighting, the works.

My heart sank, but I kept walking.

The previous timeline flickered behind my eyelids like a reel of film I

couldn’t stop watching. That version of me had been so trusting. I’d

left Burning Cage in the school overnight, believing in the school’s

security systems and Ms. Rivera’s promises.

The next morning, I’d found it destroyed–white cleaning solution

splattered across the canvas, eating through layers of prussian blue

and burnt umber until the figure’s face was obliterated. Sloane had

appeared in the storage room doorway, her expression perfectly

crafted sympathy. “Oh god, Elara. The janitor must have knocked

something over. I’m so sorry,”

The janitor. As if accidents like that just happened to scholarship

students.

Not this time.

The subway rattled beneath me as I held the portfolio case across my

lap like a shield. Outside, Manhattan blurred into streams of light. I

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closed my eyes and thought of Mrs. Castellano–her wrinkled hands

guiding mine across canvas, her Italian accent thick as she explained

how Caravaggio had used shadow. She’d taught me in her apartment from age five to fifteen, charging nothing, accepting only my hunger

to learn.

Three years gone now. But her lessons remained carved into my

muscle memory.

Tomorrow, I’d show them what she’d taught me.

October 30th, 7:45 AM. The exhibition hall was empty when I arrived

-just me, the echo of my footsteps on marble, and the smell of fresh

paint from the newly mounted display boards.

Section A dominated the center. Three spotlights already positioned, waiting for Victoria’s work. Professional mounting brackets gleamed under the lights.

I turned away and headed to the back corner,

Section C. Tucked beside the emergency exit, partially hidden by a support column. One dim overhead light that buzzed faintly. The security guard had pointed this way with barely concealed

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indifference. “You’ve got until 8:15, then we lock it down.”

I set the portfolio case on the floor and carefully lifted out Burning

Cage.

The canvas seemed to pulse even in the weak light–the fractured

female figure, wings disintegrating into flame, chest cavity hollow

but burning. Her eyes stared forward with terrible clarity. I’d finished

her at 12 AM after Julian left me for Sloane’s phone call, when my

hands still shook with rage and my throat tasted like jalapeños and

betrayal.

I mounted it on the display easel, adjusting angles until the flame-

wing transition caught what little light existed. The painting

deserved better. But this corner, this shadows–maybe they were

fitting. A woman burning in darkness.

I draped the dust cloth over the canvas, smoothing out the wrinkles

with careful hands. Protected. Hidden, Safe until the judges arrived.

My portfolio went on the small side table–process notes,

photographs, sketches arranged in chronological order. Everything

documented. Everything traceable back to my hand, my mind, my

vision.

I stepped back, checking the setup one final time.

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Good enough. It would have to be.

I turned to leave–and heard voices echoing from the main entrance.

“God, Vic, you look amazing. That Burberry is perfect.” Brittany’s

voice, sugary and sharp.

I froze.

Through the exhibition hall’s archway, I watched Victoria sweep in

like she owned the building–which, considering her grandfather’s

endowment, she basically did. Burberry plaid coat, makeup camera-

ready despite the early hour, hair in perfect waves. But her eyes held

shadows. Exhaustion. This was her first day back since the dinner

party incident.

Brittany and Charlotte flanked her like ladies–in–waiting. All three

carried designer coffee cups and walked with the easy confidence of

people who’d never been told they didn’t belong.

“The lighting team came yesterday,” Charlotte was saying. “Your

section looks incredible. Like a real gallery.”

They moved toward Section A. I stood in the shadows of Section C,

motionless, hoping they wouldn’t notice me.

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Victoria stopped in front of her designated space and smiled–the

kind of smile that cost thousands in orthodontics. “Perfect. They

followed all my specifications.”

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