Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 71

Chapter 71

Elara

She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to.

Brittany giggled. “At least you’ll have privacy back there. No one will

see if it’s-” She paused delicately. “-disappointing.”

“Better than hiding behind someone else’s brushstrokes,” I said

quietly.

The words hung in the air for three seconds.

Victoria’s face drained of color, then flushed angry red. “What did you

just say?”

“Nothing.” I picked up my empty portfolio case. “Good luck today.”

I walked toward the exit, forcing myself not to run, not to show

weakness.

“You’re going to regret that,” Victoria called after me, voice tight with

fury. “Today, tomorrow–you’ll regret every word.”

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Chapter 71

I pushed through the exhibition hall doors into the corridor, heart

hammering against my ribs.

Behind me, I heard Charlotte’s voice: “Vic, what did she mean about

brushstrokes-”

“Shut up.” Victoria’s response was harsh, panicked. “Just shut up and

help me mount these paintings.”

I kept walking. Didn’t look back.

She knows, I thought. She knows her work isn’t hers. And she’s

terrified someone else will figure it out.

Good.

9:00 AM. The judges entered: three professors from RISD, Parsons,

and Pratt, plus a New York art critic whose reviews could make or

break careers. Mr. Vane Senior and several board members trailed

behind–including someone from Vane Group’s media division.

We stood along the walls, bodies rigid with anticipation. The review

began at Section A.

Chapter 71

Victoria’s work drew appreciative nods. The technique was flawless-

too flawless, the brushstrokes belonging to someone with thirty years

of experience, not three years of high school art classes. But only I

seemed to notice.

“Did you complete these independently?” The Parsons professor–a

middle–aged woman with sharp eyes–leaned closer.

Victoria’s smile was practiced perfection. “Of course. I’ve had

professional training since I was twelve.”

They moved through Section B, making notes. Then toward Section C.

Toward me.

Victoria’s face drained of color so fast I thought she might faint. Her

eyes locked on Burning Cage, and her lips formed soundless words.

“How… how is it…”

Brittany frowned at her. “Victoria? You okay?”

Victoria didn’t answer. Her fingers clawed at her Burberry collar like

she couldn’t breathe. Like she was seeing something impossible.

She knew. The plan to destroy my work–she’d been part of it. And

now she was staring at a canvas that should have been ruined, should

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Chapter 71

have been covered in cleaning solution or worse, but instead hung

intact on the wall like a slap across her perfect face.

Professor Mitchell stopped in front of Burning Cage. He was older,

maybe seventy, with a grey goatee and eyes that had seen ten

thousand student paintings. He stood there for five minutes. Leaned

in to examine brushstrokes. Stepped back to study composition.

Pulled out his phone and took photographs.

The other two professors crowded closer. Whispers. The critic’s pen

flew across her notebook.

The entire hall went silent. Even the board members stopped talking.

Everyone felt it–that shift in atmosphere when something

extraordinary enters a room.

“This is your work?” Professor Mitchell’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes were surgical. “Explain this technique.” He pointed to where

the wings dissolved into fire–the section where I’d used seven layers

of transparent glazes over impasto flame, where cold blues met hot

reds in violent, deliberate breaks. “The intersection here. How did you achieve this quality?”

Chapter 71

My throat was dry, but my voice came out steady. “The wings are built

on prussian blue and burnt umber–seven glazes for transparency.

The flames use cadmium red and yellow ochre with palette knife

application for texture. At the boundary, I used cangiante–the

Renaissance technique of abrupt color shift rather than gradual

blending. It creates visual rupture. Like the moment something

breaks.”

Professor Mitchell’s eyebrows rose. “You know cangiante? That’s a

sixteenth–century method. Very few contemporary students study it.”

“My teacher taught me.” Mrs. Castellano’s face flashed in my mind-

her patient hands, her insistence that I learn the old masters. “She

said modern techniques are just rediscovering what Florence already

knew.”

The Parsons professor opened my portfolio, flipping through pages of

detailed process notes–color mixing ratios, photographs of each

painting stage, sketches exploring composition options. “You

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