Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana never thought pancakes could taste like possibility but that morning, they did.

She sat across from Jasmine at the small kitchen table, watching her sister beam over her acceptance email like it was a golden ticket. The kind of smile Eliana hadn't seen in months. It made everything else the studio deadlines, the pressure, even Dominic's cryptic invitations—fade for a moment.

"You know," Jasmine said, pouring syrup a little too recklessly, "I was scared you'd say no."

"To what?"

"To me going back to school. I know it's more bills and more pressure."

Eliana blinked. "Jas… why would I ever be against that?"

Jasmine shrugged. "Because sometimes I feel like I'm just… holding you back."

"You're the reason I keep going," Eliana said softly, "not the thing holding me down."

They sat in silence for a beat, the kind of silence that didn't need filling.

Then Jasmine grinned. "I also might've signed up for Creative Writing."

Eliana raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you write?"

"Since I realized the world needs more angry poems about medical bills and cute boys who disappear after the third date."

Eliana laughed. "Now that I'll read."

Later that afternoon, Eliana stepped into the studio feeling oddly lighter.

She hadn't planned to paint that day—her body was tired, her mind was busier than usual but when she looked at the blank canvas, something inside her stirred, not guilt, not obligation just… desire.

She tied her apron, pushed her hair into a bun, and began sketching, not a person this time, not even a face.

It a street corner, the one near the river a tarot woman's table, the blurred outlines of strangers walking by. A girl sitting beside a railing, sketchpad in her lap, trying to draw a city that never stood still long enough.

It felt honest and real like she was finally painting something that belonged only to her. She was midway through brushing the sky in layered blues when a voice behind her said, "I didn't expect to find you working today."

Eliana turned, unsurprised to see Dominic. He always arrived when she least expected and most needed to be left alone.

"You make it sound like a crime."

Dominic leaned against the doorframe. His charcoal-grey coat matched the rainclouds outside. "Not a crime just rare."

She set the brush down. "If you're here about the dinner thing, I haven't decided yet."

"Actually, I came to ask what size dress you wear."

Eliana blinked. "Excuse me?"

Dominic smirked. "I sent your name to the event coordinator, if you decide to come, they'll have something prepared."

"Do you always assume people will say yes?"

"No, but I plan like they will."

"Arrogant much?"

"Prepared, Eliana. There's a difference."

She crossed her arms. "And what if I don't show up? What if I decide it's not worth stepping into that kind of world?"

"Then you'll still have a beautiful dress and an unopened invitation but something tells me you won't ignore the door forever."

He said it quietly, not like a challenge—but like he knew her better than she wanted him to. She hated that he was probably right.

That evening, Eliana didn't go straight home.

Instead, she made a stop in Clinton Hill—a small art café called The Copper Brush, run by one of her old classmates, Mariah. It was one of those places that smelled like cinnamon, spilled ink, and a bit too much espresso. People read poetry on Wednesdays and sold zines on Saturdays.

Mariah was behind the counter, wearing her usual paint-splattered overalls and a crooked smile.

"Elie-freaking-ana Brooks," she said, arms wide. "I thought you moved to Paris and married a poet."

"Just been busy," Eliana replied, accepting the hug.

They sat at a table near the window, sipping peppermint tea.

"So," Mariah said, "spill….the studio, the rumors, the quiet billionaire who keeps showing up to your shows—girl, what is going on?"

Eliana groaned. "There are no rumors and Dominic isn't…he's just a client."

"Uh-huh and I'm just a barista."

"He commissioned six pieces. That's all."

"And yet he keeps coming around like you're the moon and he's the only one with a telescope."

Eliana laughed despite herself. "You should write that down, Jasmine's taking poetry now."

Mariah smirked. "Smart girl. Speaking of Jasmine—how is she?"

"Better, she just got into part-time classes. We're adjusting."

"I'm glad," Mariah said, eyes softening. "You deserve some peace."

Eliana didn't answer instead, her gaze wandered to a corkboard near the bathroom filled with flyers, auditions, part-time jobs and open mics.

One bright yellow paper stood out:

"Volunteer Art Mentor Needed – Youth Center in Red Hook."

Something fluttered in her chest.

"Can I take that?" she asked.

Mariah followed her gaze. "Of course. They've been looking for someone for weeks."

Eliana folded the flyer into her bag.

She didn't know why it called to her—only that it did.

Two days later, she found herself walking into a cramped but colorful building on a quiet block in Red Hook. The East Harbor Youth Center was nothing fancy—cracked tiles, chipped paint but it hummed with energy.

Kids ran through the halls laughing. Music blared from a far room. A mural half-finished sprawled across the back wall of the entrance.

"Can I help you?" asked a woman at the front desk.

"Eliana Brooks. I saw the flyer about mentoring."

The woman lit up. "You're an artist?"

Eliana nodded. "Sort of."

"Come on," she said, gesturing. "They're painting in Room 3. You'll love it."

Room 3 was chaos, wonderful chaos.

Markers everywhere, paint on the floor, a boy trying to glue feathers to a sneaker another girl arguing that her cat needed a crown. At the center stood a teenager with paint-streaked arms and quiet eyes.

"Class," the woman said, "this is Miss Eliana. She's a real artist."

All eyes turned.

Eliana froze for half a second, then smiled. "Hey. Mind if I join?"

The quiet-eyed teen handed her a paintbrush.

"Only if you help me finish this dragon," he said.

That evening, she returned home late—covered in glitter, tired in a good way.

Jasmine was curled on the couch, reading.

"You're smiling," she said without looking up. "Like... real smiling."

Eliana kicked off her shoes. "I went to a youth center."

"To teach?"

"To learn, actually."

She dropped beside her sister.

"You ever see a kid try to paint a dragon with three heads and roller skates?"

Jasmine laughed. "That sounds illegal."

"It was perfect."

They sat together in the quiet again, this time without heaviness. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Eliana felt something like balance.

Art that was hers, work that mattered and people who didn't want to own her.

Just see her.

But of course, peace doesn't last.

Two days later, her phone buzzed with a message from Dominic.

Dinner is in three days. The car will be outside your studio at 6PM. 

Dress is handled. You'll be fine.

No question mark and no pressure Just certainty.

Eliana stared at the screen for a long time.

Then she looked at the dress hanging in the corner. It was midnight blue—backless and dangerous. And she wasn't sure whether she wanted to disappear in it—or finally be seen.

But either way…She was going and whatever waited across that ballroom floor—fame, fear, or something far more personal—she would face it.

Head high.

Even if her heart wasn't ready.

Three days passed quicker than Eliana expected.

The dress, still untouched in its black garment bag, hung like a dare by the studio wall. She hadn't tried it on, she hadn't even unzipped it every time she looked at it, her throat tightened.

She'd painted three times since receiving Dominic's message—none of the canvases had been for the commission. All had been messy, emotional, and too personal to sell but she didn't care. It felt good to create without expectations.

Still, as Friday crept closer, her nerves frayed.

"I'm not going," she muttered Thursday night, pacing the living room as Jasmine watched her like a scientist observing a storm cloud.

"You are."

"No, I'm not."

"Elie."

Eliana spun around. "Jas, I'll be standing in a room full of polished billionaires in heels I don't know how to walk in, pretending I belong to where I don't belong."

Jasmine sat forward. "Do you remember what Mom used to say when you painted your first self-portrait?"

Eliana frowned. "That I made myself look like a 'young Auntie Whoopi'?"

Jasmine chuckled. "No. She said: 'You paint yourself so small when you were born to be wide.'"

Eliana blinked.

"She wasn't talking about your hips, she meant your presence."

Silence fell between them.

Then Jasmine, with the weight of a younger sister who had always watched her closely, added, "Just go, once. You don't owe him anything after that but maybe... maybe you owe it to yourself to know."

The following evening, Eliana stood in front of the mirror in the studio's tiny bathroom. The dress clung to her like liquid ink—silky, structured, undeniably expensive. Her curls were pulled up, a few tendrils left free to kiss her cheekbones. She wore no jewelry, just a touch of eyeliner and her mother's old lip balm.

When she stepped out, even she had to admit it—She looked like someone else, not someone faker but someone braver.

The black car was already waiting outside the building when she walked out. The driver, in a sleek suit, opened the door for her without a word.

As she slid into the leather seat, her palms damp and her heartbeat loud in her ears, Eliana whispered under her breath:

"You don't belong here."

But the voice that answered—quiet, stubborn, somewhere deep in her chest—said:

"Maybe you do."

The venue was a converted museum—ornate and bathed in soft golden light. Tall ceilings, marble floors, waiters with champagne, everything shimmered.

She stepped in and froze just past the entrance, unsure which way to go.

Then a voice, calm and sharp, cut through the crowd.

"You came."

Dominic stood at the top of the small staircase leading into the ballroom. He wasn't in a full tux, but close enough—Clean lines, sharp tailoring, black-on-black, understated but commanding.

Eliana straightened her spine. "I said I might."

"I prepared like you would."

He offered his arm.

She hesitated, then took it.

Every head didn't turn when she entered just some.

Enough.

She could feel it—the shift in air. Some people looked curious, few looked annoyed, one or two raised glasses in her direction like they knew something she didn't.

"What is this, exactly?" she whispered.

"A charity gala," Dominic replied. "Art, medicine, tech. A lot of important people half of them pretending to be more than they are."

"And I'm pretending to be less."

He looked at her.

"You're not pretending at all. That's what makes them nervous."

She didn't know what to say to that.

The evening passed in fragments.

Introductions she barely remembered, questions about her work with a smiles she wore like armor. The champagne helped, a little so did the music.

When the dinner began, Dominic made sure she had a seat beside him at the long table near the stage. Across from them sat a man who looked like he owned a yacht and the smugness to match. Next to him was a woman in a red dress who kept eyeing Eliana like she was a puzzle missing its box.

"She's lovely," the woman said to Dominic, but loud enough for Eliana to hear. "Is she your new Sofia?"

Something in Eliana's chest tightened.

Dominic's expression didn't flicker. "She's Eliana."

The woman smiled thinly, turning back to her drink.

Later, when Dominic stepped away to speak with a donor, Eliana excused herself and walked out onto the terrace.

The night air was cool, and for the first time in hours, she could breathe.

The city sparkled in the distance as she leaned on the railing, letting the wind pull through the loose strands of her hair.

"You're avoiding the wine auction," Noah said, stepping beside her with two glasses in hand.

She smiled faintly. "It felt safer out here."

He handed her one of the glasses. "Figured you'd need this more than anyone in there."

She accepted it with a quiet thanks. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the city hum below.

"Quite the circus," he added.

Eliana chuckled. "Is it always like this?"

"Worse, tonight's actually tame."

She turned toward him. "So… you really do this kind of thing all the time?"

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Not really my scene, but I show up for Dominic."

Eliana took a slow sip. "He mentioned he used to paint."

Noah nodded. "Yeah, before everything got… big. I think part of him misses it, but he'd never say that out loud."

"You're close," she said.

A quiet laugh. "Close enough to know when he's full of it."

They fell into an easy rhythm, no pressure, no posturing just quiet honesty beneath the noise of the evening.

By the time they returned inside, Eliana felt a little less like a guest aand a little more like a person who belonged.

The evening ended with a silent auction, a brief speech, and more names than she could remember.

On the ride home, Dominic didn't say much. At one point, he looked over at her, eyes thoughtful.

"Do you regret coming?"

Eliana was quiet, then shook her head. "No, but I still don't understand why."

"Because people like you don't usually walk into rooms like that," he said. "And when they do, the room doesn't forget."

She looked out the window, trying not to feel anything too close to flattery.

"And Noah?" she asked. "Was that part of the plan, too?"

Dominic's voice was unreadable. "Noah's just Noah. He likes people especially ones who don't pretend." They didn't speak again the rest of the ride.

When she got home, Jasmine was waiting on the couch, half-asleep, a bowl of popcorn on her lap.

"You survived," she mumbled.

"Barely."

"Was it beautiful?"

Eliana thought of the lights—The pressure, the quiet voice that said she didn't belong and the other voice—growing louder now—that said maybe she did.

"It was something," she replied.

And in her bag, tucked beside her sketchbook, lay a small white envelope she hadn't opened yet.

Dominic had handed it to her before she left, saying only: "Think about it."

She hadn't dared yet but tonight?

Tonight, she might because something had shifted.

Not everything, nothing much but enough.

Enough to make her wonder what would happen if she finally stopped running—and started choosing.