Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana couldn't remember the last time she felt something shift this slowly in her chest. It wasn't anxiety—at least, not entirely. It was movement, a turning of gears that had long rusted into place.

The next morning, she cleaned the studio, deep cleaning, not the usual push-back-the-chaos sort of clean, but a deep, dust-in-your-throat, uncover-everything kind of purge. It took nearly five hours, a full bottle of cleaner, and one chipped knuckle, but when it was done, she stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips and just… breathed.

The fourth canvas was set in the corner. Waiting and she was finally ready to face it.

Still, she didn't paint. Not yet.

Instead, she reached for the sketchbook Jasmine had given her on her last birthday—the one with the soft leather cover and thick, textured pages. The one she hadn't dared to touch.

She opened to the first page, stared at it for a long time, and then began sketching: a girl with her hair tied in three messy buns, standing on the edge of a rooftop with her arms out, not flying but feeling. Underneath, she wrote: One day, you'll understand the weight of standing still.

That evening, Dominic sent another text.

I want you to meet someone. She's been asking about your work. 

Discreetly, but persistently.

Eliana stared at the message, chewing her bottom lip. It was always something with him. Always a door she hadn't knocked on, swinging open as if it had been waiting for her.

She didn't reply right away, instead, she called Jasmine.

Her sister picked up on the second ring, her voice a little breathless. "Hey! I was just walking back from class."

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah. What's up?"

Eliana looked out her window. The sun was beginning to sink behind the buildings. "I think I'm scared of succeeding."

Jasmine didn't laugh or tease. She just said softly, "Because you never thought you could."

"Exactly."

"You can say no to him, you know."

"I know."

"But you don't want to."

"No."

"Then maybe stop fighting the current. Let it carry you a little."

Eliana blinked fast. "You sound like Grandma Elise."

"Then I'm definitely right."

Later that night, Eliana found herself outside a café in the East Village. It was the kind of place that looked like it had a hundred years of stories tucked into the walls: ivy growing up the sides, lanterns strung across the windows, and handwritten menus chalked on slates.

Inside, Dominic was already waiting.

He stood when she entered, not in a performative way, but out of some old instinct she couldn't place, polite, controlled and always watching.

"Thanks for coming," he said as she sat down.

"I haven't said I'm staying."

"You're here."

"Still doesn't mean yes."

He didn't push. Instead, he motioned to the woman sitting at the table beside him. Late forties, elegantly dressed but not flashy, with warm eyes that studied Eliana like a canvas she wanted to understand.

"This is Marissa Leclerc," Dominic said. "She curates for several private collectors and teaches at Parsons occasionally."

Marissa offered her hand. "Your name is traveling, Ms. Brooks, quietly but it's moving."

"That sounds dangerous," Eliana said.

Marissa smiled. "Sometimes visibility is the sharpest weapon. It cuts both ways."

They spoke for over an hour—about art, about form, about the brutality of the industry and the softness required to survive it. Marissa didn't flatter. She challenge, Eliana liked that.

When they stood to leave, Marissa pressed a card into her palm. "You're not where you're going yet but I'd like to be part of the path, if you'll allow it."

And then she was gone.

Dominic walked her to the corner without speaking, when they stopped, Eliana said, "You knew I'd like her."

"I hoped."

They stood in silence, city sounds swelling around them.

"She asked if I'm ready to be seen," Eliana said.

"And are you?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she turned and walked away but the silence she left behind carried something heavier than doubt. It carried choice.

Three days later, the fourth painting was halfway done.

She didn't plan it, didn't sketch.

It came in a rush: a figure walking barefoot across broken glass, head held high, blood blooming behind every step. Around them, a crowd watched, none helped, none stopped and yet—there was defiance in every color she used.

When she stepped back, she whispered, "Maybe this is what being seen feels like."

The next time she met Noah, it wasn't about a canvas.

He found her sketching in the park, sitting beneath a tree with a scarf wrapped around her head to block the sun.

He offered her a hot chocolate before sitting beside her.

"You look like someone building a kingdom," he said, nodding at the pages.

Eliana didn't smile. "I'm still drafting the map."

"You know Dom's proud of you, right?"

"He doesn't say it."

"He doesn't know how."

She closed the book. "What does he want from me, Noah? Really?"

Noah sighed. "More than he understands but less than you fear."

"That's not comforting."

"It's not meant to be."

They sat in silence, birds darted between branches. A girl chased her balloon down the path. For a moment, life felt normal.

Then Noah said, "He's planning something. He won't say what but it's big. You'll be at the center."

"Is that supposed to scare me?"

"No," Noah said. "But it should prepare you."

Back home that evening, Jasmine was stretched on the couch, flipping through a pamphlet.

Eliana dropped her bag by the door. "Long day?"

"Just filled with tiny epiphanies," Jasmine said. "Do you know how weird it is to sit in a class again and realize your brain actually wants to be there?"

"Pretty weird," Eliana admitted, joining her. "What's that?"

"Student gallery showcase, end of semester. They're letting anyone submit—students, guests, community artists."

Eliana blinked. "Wait, guests?"

"Yeah. I may have... mentioned you to someone."

"Jas—"

"Just come see the space next week, no pressure. If it sucks, we leave."

Eliana sighed. "Fine but if anyone calls me 'emerging talent,' I'm walking."

They both laughed.

That night, Dominic called, no text, no pretense.

Just a voice on the line.

"Eliana," he said, his tone quieter than usual. "There's something I need to ask you."

She straightened in her chair. "Ask."

"After the sixth piece, after it's done. I want you to join me at a private retreat just for a weekend. Artists, thinkers, people who matter. I'll cover everything."

She was quiet.

"Say something," he added.

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

"What it means to matter."

The line went still.

Then, softly: "You already do."

She didn't reply.

But something inside her ached anyway.

The next morning, she began the fifth painting.

And this time, it didn't fight her. It welcomed her in because she finally understood what it meant to be seen—and still choose to stand.