Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

The finished canvas stood drying in the far corner of the studio. Eliana sat cross-legged on the floor, brush still between her fingers, like the momentum of creation had left her body but hadn't quite exited her hands. She'd done it—completed the first commissioned piece Dominic requested and not just completed it, but poured something real into it—maybe too real.

Across the room, the contract still hung beside the window, untouched since she taped it up. She hadn't signed it yet not officially but finishing the piece—it felt like she'd agreed to something, even if the ink hadn't yet met the paper.

She leaned her head back against the wall, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling. It was almost noon and she hadn't had breakfast.

She dragged herself up and wiped her hands on the side of her jeans. Her body ached, and the back of her neck felt tight from hours hunched over the easel. She needed air, caffeine, something that didn't smell like turpentine.

By the time she stepped outside, the fall chill had settled into the wind, and her sweater did little to stop it. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and walked toward the corner café she liked—the one with mismatched chairs and the barista who always drew hearts in her foam without saying a word.

It was a short walk, but enough to reset her brain.

When she arrived, she took her usual seat by the window and ordered a flat white and a croissant. The café was half-full with students, freelancers, someone loudly pitching a startup idea on a call near the back. Eliana pulled out her sketchpad and opened it to a blank page, and then she just… stared.

There were no urgent shapes fighting to be born this time, no colors whispering just the hollow quiet of someone who had emptied something important onto a canvas and didn't know what came next.

Her phone buzzed on the table. It was Jasmine.

Can we talk when you're back? Nothing bad. Just something. 

Eliana replied quickly.

Of course. 

Be home in an hour.

Back at the apartment, she found Jasmine in the kitchen wearing Eliana's oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy pink socks. She had two mugs of hot chocolate waiting, steam curling in the air.

"You didn't say what it was about," Eliana said, easing onto one of the chairs.

Jasmine slid a piece of paper across the table.

Eliana stared at it.

An official class schedule.

"Five courses, part-time, beginning in just over a week, There's a support group, flexible deadlines, and the nurse on campus knows about my condition."

Eliana stared at her sister, all grown up in her fuzzy socks and bright eyes.

She felt something fierce and soft move through her.

"I'm so proud of you," she said, and meant it with every breath.

Jasmine smiled. "So… I'll need to go shopping for a few things. Maybe tomorrow?"

"You mean a celebratory supply run?"

"Exactly."

They both laughed, and for a moment, the weight Eliana always carried didn't feel so heavy.

Later that night, she returned to the studio and stared at the finished painting. There was pride there, yes—but also a seed of anxiety.

Was it enough?

Would it be what Dominic expected?

Would it—God forbid—mean something to him?

She paced the room for nearly an hour before she caved and called Noah.

He answered on the second ring. "Studio panic?"

"Does it show?"

"You have that tone."

"I finished the piece."

There was a beat of silence. "Already?"

"I don't know if it's what he wants."

Noah chuckled. "Eliana, he doesn't want perfect. He wants real."

She didn't answer.

"Do you want me to come pick it up?"

She hesitated. "No, not yet. I want to show him myself."

There was something final about that decision, like a bridge she'd built herself just to walk across it.

Noah's voice softened. "Then he'll be there when you're ready."

She hung up and stared at the painting again, the figure reaching through a sea of strangers, she didn't know if it was for someone else or for herself.

The next morning, she took Jasmine to a little bookstore downtown. It was tucked between two high-rises, invisible unless you knew it was there.

They walked the aisles slowly, Jasmine gathering notebooks, pens, highlighters in rainbow colors. Eliana wandered toward the art section, her fingers brushing spines without opening any.

At one point, Jasmine nudged her and held up a sketchbook bound in black leather. "This feels like you."

Eliana took it. The paper was thick, textured. She bought it without asking the price.

Later, over pizza slices on the curb outside, Jasmine said, "Do you think he'll like it?"

"Who?"

"Your client."

Eliana raised a brow. "You've never called him that before."

"I just… I heard you last night on the phone."

Eliana flushed. "I'm showing him the piece tomorrow."

Jasmine smiled gently. "Then maybe it's time you stop calling him 'the man in the hallway.'"

Eliana didn't reply, but her chest felt tight all the same.

She barely slept that night.

When the sun finally dragged itself over the buildings, she was already dressed—wearing her cleanest clothes, hair pulled back, a small folder tucked under her arm.

At the studio, she wrapped the painting carefully. It took forever. Every inch was padded and secured, as though she were mailing her soul to someone.

Then she called Dominic.

He didn't say much. Just an address, somewhere in Tribeca.

A quiet penthouse with too many windows and an elevator that spoke in hushed tones, she was buzzed in without question.

When the door opened, Dominic was already standing in the entryway.

He didn't smile, but he didn't look distant either.

"Come in."

She stepped inside.

It smelled like old paper and fresh coffee. Not what she'd expected.

The walls were covered in paintings—but not her style, it abstracts, bold color fields, pieces that screamed.

He led her to a room with high ceilings and soft lighting. A gallery room, maybe. Or his private vault.

"Show me," he said, voice calm.

Eliana set the package on the table and unwrapped it slowly.

The moment he saw it—his silence changed.

He stepped closer, not touching just watching like the figure in the painting might speak to him or accuse him.

Eliana waited.

Her stomach twisted.

Then, finally, he whispered, "It's perfect."

She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"I didn't know if it would be what you—"

He raised a hand. Not rudely just gently stopping her.

"You painted the truth," he said. And for the first time, he looked at her—not through her.

Then he walked away, just like that.

She left the penthouse in silence, the check heavier in her pocket than the canvas had been in her hands. Outside, the wind bit harder but her steps felt lighter almost like something had shifted.

Later that night, Eliana returned home to find Jasmine sitting on the fire escape, blanket over her shoulders, reading a textbook by flashlight.

"You're going to ruin your eyes," Eliana said, stepping out beside her.

"Too late," Jasmine grinned.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the city blink in windows and headlights.

Jasmine asked, "How did it go?"

Eliana stared at the sky, the stars faint and blinking.

"I think I passed," she said.

"Passed what?"

"Some kind of test."

"Welldone"

But Jasmine's eyes twinkled, and Eliana knew—this was their life, painful, beautiful and unfinished.

Like a good painting just then her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

"The first piece is complete. 

When you're ready, let's talk about the second."

There was no name but she didn't need one because something had started and it wasn't going to stop.

That night, Eliana couldn't sleep. Even after the city's chaos died down, even after Jasmine drifted off in her room with soft music playing in the background, her mind was still wide awake.

She kept replaying Dominic's words in her head.

You painted the truth.

The words weren't flattery, they were something else something… more weighted, more personal. He hadn't said much, but the way he looked at the piece—like it had peeled back a layer he didn't know existed—that had said everything.

But still, she wondered: Why her?

She wasn't the most famous artist in the city, or the most connected, or even the most technically impressive. Her pieces were raw, yes it's emotional but that wasn't what people in polished suits usually paid for.

What did he see?

What was he hoping to find in the rest of the collection?

And why the rush?

By morning, her thoughts had only twisted further, like the threads of a frayed canvas. She forced herself to stop thinking, showered, and then grabbed her coat for a walk. She didn't tell Jasmine where she was going—she left a note by the toaster instead.

Clearing my head. 

Will be back soon. 

The streets were still sleepy. Cafés just opening, traffic not quite suffocating yet, she wandered aimlessly, her hands deep in her pockets, until her feet led her to a park she hadn't been to in years—one with a rusted fountain and benches that faced east, toward the river.

She sat and watched the water ripple under the bridge.

A voice startled her.

"Hell of a morning to be this lost in your head."

She turned to see a man sitting two benches away, hood up, coffee in hand. It took her a second to recognize him.

Noah.

Of course, it was him.

He gave her a lazy smile. "Don't worry, I wasn't following you, I just happen to like this bench."

"You always just happen to be where I am?"

"I'm spooky like that."

Eliana gave a tired laugh and looked back at the water.

Noah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You showed him the piece?"

She nodded. "He said it was perfect."

"That's not bad."

"It's not the word that scared me. It's the way he said it."

Noah didn't answer right away. "He's intense always has been."

"And why is that?"

Noah took a sip of his coffee. "Because he's always seen the world in numbers, structure, control but your art—it doesn't ask for control, it demands surrender."

Eliana turned toward him slowly. "And what do you see in it?"

Noah smiled. "Chaos….beautiful chaos like something honest clawing its way out."

She was quiet for a moment, unsure what to do with that.

"Are you here to make me feel better about it?" she asked.

"I'm here to keep him from scaring you off."

Eliana raised an eyebrow. "Is that your full-time job?"

He laughed. "Feels like it."

When she got home, Jasmine was curled on the couch, books surrounding her like a fortress.

"Hey," Eliana said, sliding off her boots.

"Hey yourself." Jasmine looked up from her biology textbook. "I was starting to think you ran away to Paris."

"Tempting," Eliana muttered, then flopped beside her. "Just needed to think."

Jasmine studied her sister's face. "It didn't help, did it?"

"Not really."

"You know you don't have to do all six pieces if you don't want to."

Eliana looked at her. "I do."

"But why?"

Eliana paused. Then, slowly, she answered. "Because I've never been invited to take up space like this before. I want to see what happens if I do."

Jasmine blinked. "Well… damn."

"I know."

They both laughed, and Jasmine leaned her head on Eliana's shoulder. "I'm proud of you too."

Eliana smiled. "Guess we're both growing up."

"No, no. Let's not get carried away."

Later that week, Eliana found herself in the community center down on Sixth Avenue. She hadn't been there since before Jasmine got sick but she needed paint—more than her budget allowed—and the center had a supply swap board.

She ended up talking to a volunteer named Rae, a bright-eyed woman in her fifties who wore rainbow earrings and smelled like cinnamon.

"You're Eliana Brooks?" Rae asked, flipping through a form.

"I am."

"You did that show with the dripping skylines three years ago."

Eliana blinked. "You remember that?"

"Of course I do. I bought one of your prints off a student who couldn't pay rent."

Eliana smiled. "Well, thank you for supporting my landlord."

Rae laughed. "We're doing a community exhibit next month, are you interested?"

"I don't know. I'm sort of… in something right now. A private commission."

"Fancy." Rae leaned in. "Well, if you want to show something local, the door's open. Just one piece, something you love."

Eliana hesitated, then nodded. "I'll think about it."And she meant it.

The next piece came easier, not fast, not rushed but steadier.

This one was a woman walking into the ocean, not drowning, just walking—clothes still on, mouth open like she was tasting the salt in the wind.

Eliana painted it in layers, days bleeding into each other. She barely noticed the time passing. Jasmine's school prep kept her busy. Noah texted occasionally with vague jokes, Dominic didn't message again.

Until he did.

"Dinner on Tuesday. 

Business, bring the second piece along."

She stared at the message like it might bite.

Business, right. That's all it was.

She wore black pants and a navy top—clean but forgettable. She brought the piece, wrapped, and met Dominic at a small Italian place tucked off Canal Street. The kind of place that didn't need reservations because it didn't want strangers.

He was already seated. No wine just water and a plate of untouched olives in the middle.

"You're early," she said.

He looked up. "I value punctuality."

She sat down. Placed the painting gently beside her chair.

"You brought it."

"Like you asked."

He nodded once.

A waiter came and took their orders. Eliana picked pasta she couldn't pronounce and Dominic ordered a steak rare. Silence stretched between them.

"You're uncomfortable," he said.

"You're observant."

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

She looked away. "Do you always eat dinner with your artists?"

"No. Just you."

Her gaze snapped back to his.

He said nothing more.

Dinner passed with strange calm. They didn't speak much but when the bill came, Dominic stood and gestured to the painting.

"May I?" She nodded.

He unwrapped it slowly, just like before, and again—no words. Only that quiet stillness.

Then, finally: "You've found the rhythm now."

Eliana raised an eyebrow. "What rhythm?"

He didn't explain.

She watched him for a moment, then finally said, "You're not like other clients."

"And you're not like other artists."

That shut her up.

They walked out into the street together. The air was sharp with city smoke and the promise of rain.

"Three more pieces," Dominic said quietly. "And then we talk again."

"About?"

"The next step."

Before she could ask what that meant, he was already in the back of a car, gone.

Eliana stood under the streetlight, fingers tingling from more than just the cold. Something was shifting again and she had no idea which way it would break.