Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

The next morning Eliana left the house earlier to the studio to finish the unfinished work, the day felt different that morning.

Eliana stood at the far window, coffee cooling in her palm, watching dust shift in the streaks of sunlight across the floor. She hadn't painted yet, the canvas from last night sat half-finished—soft shades of blue and grey, a city blurred by rain. She didn't know if it was sadness or calm or both.

Her phone rested on the table behind her, screen dark. She hadn't responded to the message.

"I'm sending a car tomorrow."

She hadn't deleted it either and now, it was tomorrow.

Her thoughts twisted around themselves until she felt hollow not afraid just uncertain. Was she ready for what came next? Was this some kind of test? Or worse, was she stepping into something she couldn't untangle herself from once she was in too deep?

The knock came at exactly ten, not loud and not hesitant.

She turned toward it, heart steady in her chest, and opened the door.

It wasn't Dominic. It was a man in his late thirties stood there in a slate-gray suit, holding an earpiece and a clipboard. He looked like someone who hadn't smiled in years.

"Ms. Brooks," he said with a polite nod. "Mr. King sent the car. It's waiting downstairs."

Eliana blinked. "And if I say I'm not going?"

His expression didn't waver. "Then I return alone."

She studied him for a long second, then grabbed her bag and locked the studio behind her.

The car was black, sleek, and utterly out of place on her block. A few kids on bikes slowed to stare, the driver opened the back door wordlessly, and Eliana slipped inside, gripping her bag tight against her stomach. The leather seats were soft, the windows tinted, the interior quiet in a way that felt too clean, too expensive.

She didn't ask where they were going.

The city blurred past, sunlight dancing across glass and concrete, they crossed into Manhattan. The streets grew wider, shinier, fewer potholes, more suits, and more silence.

The car finally slowed in front of a building that looked like it had never once been touched by time—tall, steel, and wrapped in shadows.

The driver opened her door.

"Top floor," he said simply.

Eliana stepped onto the sidewalk, nerves twisting in her belly, and walked into the building.

The elevator was fast—too fast. It opened into a space that didn't look like an office. It looked like a gallery.

Walls of soft gray, sparse lighting. One painting on each wall, all of them with too much emotion and not enough explanation, her kind of place and at the end of the corridor, Dominic King.

He stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, staring at a painting she didn't recognize. When he turned, he looked exactly the same as the last time—sharp, unreadable, expensive.

"Eliana," he said like he'd been waiting.

She crossed her arms. "You're really committed to the drama."

He smiled faintly. "You came."

"I didn't say I'd stay."

He nodded, respectful. "Come see something."

He led her to a side room, smaller, more intimate. The walls were lined with pieces—five, to be exact.

Ones she thought had been lost when she moved, or discarded in old portfolios and there they were, framed and perfectly lit.

She stepped closer, throat tightening. "Where did you get these?"

"I found them," he said softly. "I asked questions, knocked on old studio doors. You leave trails, even when you don't mean to."

"You bought them?"

"No. They were given, people hold onto what moves them."

She turned toward him. "Why me?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked toward a cabinet, pulled out a folder, and set it on the table between them.

A new contract.

Eliana didn't open it. "I'm not signing anything today," she said.

Dominic didn't flinch. "Good. I don't want you to, not yet."

"Then what is this?"

"A conversation."

Eliana raised a brow.

"I want six pieces but original, no deadlines, no restrictions. You just name the price, I won't own them—they'll remain yours. I'll only house them in my collection, with full credit."

Eliana stared at him. "What do you get out of this?"

"A part of something real."

She tilted her head. "That's not an answer."

"It's the truth."

Silence stretched between them. Dominic didn't push. He didn't circle her with charm or flattery. He just stood there still, waiting.

Eliana glanced down at the folder again.

"I'll think about it."

"Good."

She turned toward the paintings again. One in particular pulled her—an old one, from years ago, back when her grief was still raw. She didn't even remember giving it a title but seeing it now, here, in this quiet space—it hurt and healed at the same time.

"Why do you care so much about art?" she asked suddenly.

Dominic's voice was quiet behind her. "Because everything else I own is meant to impress. Art is the only thing I've found that dares to tell the truth."

Back in Brooklyn, Jasmine was curled on the fire escape, a blanket over her knees, holding a letter in her lap.

Eliana arrived just as the sun began to dip behind the buildings.

"I brought food," she called through the window.

Jasmine slid back inside, cheeks pink from the chill. "You brought dumplings?"

"No, better Tacos."

Jasmine laughed and took the bag. "Now I know you love me."

They sat on the couch with greasy wrappers and fizzy drinks and the sound of an old sitcom playing too low in the background. For a while, it was just noise and comfort. Then Jasmine grew quiet.

"I got the email," she said finally.

Eliana paused, mid-bite. "What email?"

Jasmine pulled her phone out and handed it to her.

Congratulations! You've been accepted into the part-time track at Bryant Community College. Orientation begins October 12th.

Eliana's mouth opened.

"You applied?" she asked, stunned.

"yes, I told you did you forget."

Eliana felt something tighten in her chest. "Jaz…"

"I know. It's crazy and I might have to defer depending on how I feel but… I want this."

Eliana leaned forward, forehead pressed against her sister's. "You're allowed to want things."

Jasmine whispered, "So are you."

And just like that, another door opened.

That night, Eliana sat at the table, the new contract spread before her. The wording was clean, clear, no tricks, and no fine print hiding ownership clauses. The check he'd given her was still untouched in the drawer, but now she understood—it wasn't bait. It was belief.

She picked up her pencil and began sketching a rough idea for the first piece maybe she wasn't signing her soul away or maybe, just maybe, she was reclaiming it.

Eliana's pencil moved in slow, deliberate lines.

At first, the page stayed quiet, no bursts of color or frantic inspiration—just outlines, shapes. A city on the edge of sleep, a figure walking alone in the dark. She didn't know who the figure was yet maybe it was her or maybe it wasn't but it felt like the start of something.

The studio was quiet except for the occasional creak of pipes and the gentle groan of the old radiator. Outside, the hum of traffic drifted through the window, the city restless even at midnight. She paused to stretch her fingers, flexing her wrist, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Her mind went to Jasmine again.

She'd tried to be excited for her, to match her sister's quiet glow when she revealed the acceptance letter, but underneath the pride was a thin layer of fear. Would Jasmine be strong enough to keep up with classes? What if her flares came back harder? What if….No, Eliana stopped herself.

She had to trust her. Jasmine was growing into her own life, carving out a space that wasn't just hospital visits and pill schedules and if Jasmine could be brave enough to chase something that uncertain, maybe Eliana could too.

She exhaled and looked back at the sketch, the figure she'd drawn was no longer walking away.

They were standing still—facing forward.

The next morning, Eliana woke to the sound of knocking.

For a second, she panicked, thinking Dominic had shown up unannounced but when she opened the door, it was Mrs. Henley from 2B, holding a box of books with her usual scowl.

"These were donated to the building's free shelf," she muttered. "Thought your sister might want them, kid's always like reading."

Eliana blinked in surprise. "That's… kind. Thank you."

Mrs. Henley sniffed. "Don't make it weird."

Eliana chuckled as she accepted the box. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She carried it inside and placed it on the floor beside the couch, where Jasmine was scrolling through orientation checklists on her phone. Her sweater sleeves were rolled up, revealing her IV scars, pale against her warm skin.

"What's this?" Jasmine asked.

"Books from the mysterious book fairy of 2B."

Jasmine grinned. "Nice. She growled at me once for using the laundry machine too late."

"She growls at everyone."

They went through the box together—old poetry collections, cracked-spined novels, a few textbooks from a decade ago. Jasmine hugged a hardcover fantasy novel to her chest like it was treasure.

"I've been looking for this everywhere," she whispered.

Eliana smiled and went to make tea. 

Later that day, she returned to the studio.

She didn't go to work on the commission immediately. Instead, she cleaned, rearranged her supplies, swept the floor twice, even scrubbed the sink she barely used. It was a nervous habit, but it made the room feel more like hers again—more like a place of choice instead of obligation.

She finally stood before the canvas and pulled out the new contract again.

She didn't sign it yet but she taped it to the wall beside her easel. A reminder not of pressure—but of purpose then she picked up her brush.

Noah Price showed up that evening. She didn't know he was coming—just heard the knock and opened the door expecting maybe a delivery or the super. Instead, she found Dominic's business partner, leaning against the hallway wall in a rumpled blazer and a crooked smile.

"Eliana Brooks," he said like they were old friends. "I was sent to check you haven't vanished."

"You could've called."

"True," he said, stepping inside. "But I'm a firm believer in face-to-face conversations."

She didn't roll her eyes, but it was close.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"Only if it's burnt."

She poured two cups and gestured for him to sit.

"I'm not here to pitch anything," Noah said after a few minutes. "Dom doesn't even know I stopped by. I just… I wanted to meet the person who managed to shut him up for once."

Eliana arched an eyebrow.

"He talks a lot?"

"Only when it matters and he's been very… focused lately."

"Focused on manipulating artists?"

Noah's smile dimmed slightly. "You don't trust him."

"I don't trust anyone who shows up with a five-thousand-dollar check and no explanation."

Noah leaned forward. "That's fair but Dom's not trying to own you. He's just tired of plastic people, he sees something in your work that makes him feel and believe me, that man's forgotten how to feel anything for a long time."

Eliana stayed quiet, eyes on the rim of her cup.

"I'm not saying sign the contract," Noah added. "Just… don't assume he's the villain."

She nodded slowly. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Why are you here?"

Noah tilted his head, thoughtful. "I like stories, yours seems worth watching."

He left ten minutes later, leaving behind a half-empty cup and an air of careful curiosity.

That night, Eliana painted until her arm ached not for Dominic, not for the contract but for herself.

When she stopped, the figure in her painting was standing in a crowd—eyes wide, reaching toward something unseen. A moment suspended and a life mid-decision.

She stepped back, breathless.

It wasn't done but it was beginning.

And maybe, just maybe, she was too.