Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 73

Chapter 73

Elara

The memory slammed into me with physical force:

Mrs. Castellano’s cramped studio, three years ago. Summer heat

making the air thick. The old woman bent over her easel, reading

glasses perched on her nose, her arthritic hands somehow still steady

as she added another layer of burnt sienna to the shadows.

“See this light, Elara?” She’d pointed to the canvas with the tip of her

brush. “It doesn’t just illuminate the table. It illuminates the loneliness itself. Light and shadow in conversation–that’s the soul of

painting.”

I’d been fifteen, sitting cross–legged on the floor with my sketchbook,

documenting every stroke she made. The painting had taken her two

weeks. She’d called it The Lonely Supper–a memorial to her late

husband, Jake.

This wasn’t inspiration. This wasn’t homage,

This was theft.

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My fingers shook as I pulled out my phone and texted my mother with fumbling urgency: “Mom–emergency. Need you to find Mrs. Castellano’s old sketches. NOW. The ones in the storage closet. Look for ‘Lonely Supper‘-table with wine glass and book. Light from left

side. PLEASE HURRY.”

On stage, Sloane’s voice continued, smooth and confident. “I used an

indirect painting method–monochrome underpainting first, then

successive glazing layers. The light source required impasto

technique for texture, while the shadows needed transparent glazing

to maintain luminosity…”

Rage burned through the numbness.

“You’re lying.” Every technical term she recited was wrong. Mrs.

Castellano had used alla prima–direct painting, wet–on–wet. No

underpainting. No glazes. One session, maybe two.

Sloane didn’t know because Sloane hadn’t painted it.

My phone vibrated.

Mom: “What?? I’m at work-”

Me: “Please. It’s life or death. I need those sketches. Photos. Send me

EVERYTHING you can find of that painting.”

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Mom: “Okay okay, give me 10 minutes”

I looked back at the stage. Sloane was answering questions now,

Julian standing just behind her, his presence a shield. Every time

someone asked something challenging, she glanced back at him. He’d

nod, or smile, or mouth something I couldn’t see.

She needed him even for this. Even surrounded by validation and

praise, she couldn’t stand alone.

The bitter thought flickered through my grief: “At least I learned to

stand on my own. Even if it was because no one would stand with

me.”

Someone in the front row asked, “Where will this piece be exhibited?”

Sloane smiled graciously. “Next month at the Marlborough Gallery in

Chelsea. Everyone’s welcome to attend.”

My phone buzzed,

Mom: “Found it! Sending now”

Three images loaded. My hands shook as I zoomed in.

The first: a yellowed sheet of sketch paper showing the initial pencil

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composition. Every line matched the painting on screen. In the

bottom right corner: “E.C. 2015.3”

The second: a more developed charcoal study, light and shadow

relationships already established.

The third: color notes in Italian-“Terra di Siena bruciata + Ocra per

le ombre“. And on the back of the paper, in Mrs. Castellano’s shaky

handwriting: “Per la memoria di J“.

For the memory of Jake.

Evidence. Undeniable, timestamped, signed evidence.

I stood up. Heads turned, but I barely noticed. My entire focus narrowed to a single point: the tech booth on the left side of the

auditorium.

Kevin sat at the control panel, a sophomore who handled all the school’s multimedia equipment. He was focused on the stage, one

hand on the laptop controlling the presentation.

I moved quickly but quietly, staying in the shadows along the wall. When I reached him, I leaned down and whispered, “Kevin. Ms. Rivera needs you in Exhibition Hall C. She says the projector’s acting up-

something about tomorrow’s events.”

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He frowned. “But the lecture isn’t over-”

“She said it’s urgent. I can watch the controls. I just press the arrow

keys, right?”

Kevin hesitated, looking between me and the stage. I could see him

weighing the options: risk leaving the controls to someone else, or

risk Ms. Rivera’s wrath if he didn’t fix an urgent problem.

“Ten minutes,” he finally said. “Just arrow keys. Don’t touch anything

else.”

“Promise.”

The moment he left, I slid into his seat. My heart hammered against

my ribs, but my hands were steady as I opened the laptop’s file

explorer, disabled the presentation mode, and opened a new browser

window. I pulled up my phone, activated the laptop’s Bluetooth, and

transferred my mother’s photos.

Thirty seconds to create a new slide deck. Another twenty to add it to

the end of Sloane’s presentation. Ten more to return to presentation

mode.

On stage, Sloane was wrapping up. In conclusion, I believe art is a

journey of solitude. But if we remain authentic, we can create work

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that truly moves people. Thank you.”

Applause filled the auditorium. She bowed gracefully, one hand to her

heart, the picture of humility and grace.

The screen should have gone dark.

Instead, it advanced to the next slide.

Mrs. Castellano’s pencil sketch filled the screen–the exact same

composition as Sloane’s “masterpiece,” dated 2015.3, signed E.C. in

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