Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana woke to a rhythm she wasn't used to. Not the sluggish drag of unfinished paintings or the hollow echo of unpaid bills. This morning, it was different—quieter, but heavier in her chest. Not exactly anxiety. Not quite excitement. A strange mix that clung to her ribs as she stared up at the cracked ceiling above her bed.

She was officially employed.

And somehow, despite all the reasons it shouldn't have made sense, it did.

Jasmine was still asleep in the other room, curled beneath a pile of mismatched blankets like a purring cat. Eliana moved around the apartment quietly—washing her face, putting on the only decent blazer she owned (a soft tan one she found at a thrift shop three years ago), and packing her sketchbook just in case someone asked for something spontaneous.

As she reached for her bag, her eyes landed on the folded contract still sitting near the kitchen lamp. Signed. Sealed. The five thousand-dollar check had cleared, and the lease on her Brooklyn studio—yes, the same space that had once smelled like mildew and coffee—had been paid up through the next six months.

Dominic had handled it. Quietly and efficiently like he was used to fixing things without being thanked.

She paused by the door, took a deep breath, and whispered to herself, "Don't act impressed. Just act like you belong."

The elevator in the office building smelled like leather and mint, and Eliana almost missed her floor because she was too busy staring at the light-up buttons like a child on a school trip. When she stepped into the lobby of Kane & Price Group, a man in a slate-grey suit nodded politely and led her through a side hallway.

Dominic met her halfway, sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand.

"You came," he said, like he'd been waiting for her all morning.

"Well, yeah. I signed a contract. You think I'm the flaky type?"

"Not flaky," he replied. "But a little unpredictable, maybe."

She raised an eyebrow. "Says the man who showed up at my door and dropped a check like it was a thank-you card."

He chuckled and gestured toward a small office at the far end of the hallway. It wasn't large, but it was bright, and the sunlight that poured in made the hardwood floors shine.

"This is your space. It's not a cubicle. I thought you'd hate that."

"You're not wrong."

"Your role here is a little fluid," Dominic said. "You'll help consult on interior design themes, color psychology, artistic direction, and emotional aesthetic. That's just the beginning."

"You mean... you want me to help decide how rich people's homes should feel?"

He shrugged. "That's one way to put it. I need someone who understands art emotionally, not just technically. You don't need to play corporate. Just play honest."

Eliana laughed nervously. "So I'm not just the in-house painter?"

"No. You're the person who brings heart into a place where it's usually missing."

That quieted her. Because it sounded so far from where she had started. And also, exactly like what she'd always wanted to be.

By the end of the day, Eliana had met Marco—head of the design team—who wore orange-rimmed glasses and smelled like cherry-flavored gum. He called her "Color Girl" and demanded mood sketches on everything from meditation rooms to rooftop lounges.

"I want the feeling of fog, but sexy," he said.

She had no idea what that meant, but she started sketching anyway.

Dominic checked in only once, during lunch. He dropped a sandwich on her desk and said, "Eat. You forget."

She muttered a thank-you as she peeled back the paper. Turkey, her favorite. She didn't remember ever telling him that.

By five, she was exhausted but it was a good kind of tired—new tired. The kind that comes with change.

That weekend, Eliana decided they needed air. She and Jasmine hadn't done anything together in weeks, and with her new job keeping her brain buzzing, she hadn't noticed how pale her sister had become again.

"Botanical gardens?" Eliana said over breakfast.

Jasmine blinked sleepily. "I look like death."

"You'll look like a garden ghost. It's on brand."

They left by noon. Jasmine wore her big sunhat and oversized sunglasses like she was hiding from paparazzi. Eliana brought sketching pencils in case inspiration struck. And for the first time in a long time, they just existed together—no meds, no pain charts, and no guilt.

They walked the orchid house first. Jasmine kept assigning dramatic backstories to the plants.

"This one," she said, pointing at a limp white orchid, "used to be in a love triangle with two tulips. One died tragically. She's still recovering."

Eliana burst out laughing, loud enough that an older couple turned to look.

"Oh, and that fern?" Jasmine added. "She's in therapy now. Weekly sessions. Learning to stand tall."

They sat near the koi pond after an hour, balancing cupcakes on their knees.

"You've changed," Jasmine said out of nowhere.

Eliana froze. "What do you mean?"

"Not in a bad way. Just... you smile more. You don't flinch every time you check your bank account. You have this lightness now, like you're breathing real air."

Eliana didn't respond right away.

"I think," she finally said, "for the first time in years, I'm not scared all the time."

They watched a fish dart through the water. Jasmine wiped frosting off her lip with the edge of a napkin.

"I dropped out of the art program," she said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

"What?"

Jasmine looked away. "They called yesterday. Said I missed too many sessions. It wasn't a surprise."

"But you didn't tell me—"

"I didn't want to disappoint you."

Eliana turned on the bench to face her. "You could never disappoint me. Not with this."

"It wasn't about the art," Jasmine said softly. "It was about proving I could still do something that made me feel human. Like everyone else."

Silence.

Then Eliana placed a hand on her sister's knee. "So what now?"

"I don't know. I don't want to go back to just lying on a couch watching reruns. I want to help people like me. Maybe not with paintings, but... I want to be a part of healing."

Eliana nodded slowly. "Something like art therapy?"

"Or wellness counseling. There's a place I saw online that uses creativity as a tool for chronic illness management. I haven't applied yet. I don't even know if I'll qualify."

"Let's find out together."

The sun was slipping lower in the sky by the time Eliana and Jasmine made their way out of the garden. It had been a strange day—good strange, for the most part. The air still carried the scent of lavender and damp soil, and birds chirped softly overhead as if the whole place had been built to hush the noise of their usual lives.

Eliana hadn't realized how long they'd spent inside the orchid house, but her phone buzzed with a gentle reminder: 6:15PM. They'd spent almost four hours surrounded by petals and vines and overpriced cupcakes.

Jasmine held onto a tiny gift bag from the botanical shop, one Eliana had insisted on buying even though Jasmine protested that she didn't need a rose quartz bracelet.

"You're wearing it," Eliana said, grinning as she glanced at the soft pink stone dangling from Jasmine's wrist.

Jasmine shrugged with a lopsided smile. "I like that it's supposed to keep bad energy away. Can't hurt, right?"

Eliana didn't say it aloud, but something about that idea made her feel a little steadier inside.

They were walking toward the bus stop now, their footsteps slow, as if neither of them really wanted the day to end. Across the street, a couple fed pigeons near a sculpture garden. A group of teenagers laughed near the fountain. The world felt soft around the edges.

That night, back home in the apartment, they opened Jasmine's laptop and searched. The apartment felt warmer than usual—Eliana's studio wall glowing with drafts and early mock-ups from work. Jasmine curled beside her with a notepad, scribbling programs and deadlines.