Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana sat cross-legged on the couch, her fingers hovering over Jasmine's laptop keyboard as Jasmine sprawled beside her with a notepad resting on her knees. The apartment was unusually quiet for a Thursday night—no humming radiator, no upstairs neighbor arguing with her boyfriend. Just the occasional city noise sneaking through the window crack.

Jasmine had just finished copying down the name of the third wellness institute they found online when she leaned over and muttered, "So far, half of these schools sound like cults."

Eliana snorted. "The last one asked if applicants believed in cosmic sound baths."

"I don't even believe in decaf."

Eliana laughed as she clicked through another program's homepage. This one looked more grounded, simple layout with neutral colors. The kind of thing built by people who didn't have time for chakra fonts or promises of inner unicorn awakenings.

"Okay," Jasmine murmured, scrolling slowly. "Here's another one—Creative Healing Institute. They do part-time therapeutic art courses for people with chronic illnesses."

Eliana leaned closer. "Wait, I've heard of that place. It's in Manhattan, right?"

"Upper East Side," Jasmine said, clicking the link. "They even offer remote sessions if traveling gets too hard."

For a second, neither of them spoke. Eliana just stared at the page—warm earth tones, smiling faces, paint palettes beside therapy journals. It didn't look like a traditional school. It looked like a place someone might go to heal.

"Click through," Eliana said. "Let's read what they're really about."

They navigated the site together, stopping at the mission statement.

"Where creativity meets compassion. Our goal is to help individuals living with chronic conditions access the emotional tools they need through guided art, music, and expressive therapy."

Jasmine gave a small, shaky breath. "This... sounds like it was written for me."

Eliana didn't reply right away. She reached out and wrapped her hand gently over her sister's, thumb brushing her knuckles. "Do you want to apply?"

"I think I do," Jasmine whispered. "But I want to know more first. I'm tired of signing up for things and watching them disappear. I just—I want something that'll actually work."

Eliana nodded. "Then let's take our time. No rush. Let's do it right."

They spent the next hour combing through every tab, reading student testimonials, and even watching a short documentary-style video from a past graduate who used the program to manage their own lupus diagnosis. The woman had sat on a rooftop in Harlem, painting with gloved hands and a wide, open laugh.

Something about it made Jasmine cry.

Not loud, not messy. Just quiet tears slipping down her cheeks while Eliana sat close and let her feel it. No advice. No fixing. Just space.

Later that night, Eliana moved to her workspace, but she couldn't quite focus on the canvas. Her thoughts kept looping back to Jasmine, to the sudden derailment of her art school plans, to the weight she carried without ever complaining.

Her phone buzzed around 11PM—Noah.

"Still awake?" the message read.

She smiled faintly. Always. Everything okay?

Just checking on the artist-in-residence. Heard you survived your first week at the empire.

Eliana snorted. Barely. Your boss breathes in silence and exhales pressure.

Sounds like him. You're doing good, though. I can tell.

She didn't answer that one. Instead, she sent back a sleepy emoji and powered down.

The next morning, Eliana's commute felt different. Maybe because she'd packed Jasmine's lunch with one hand and braided her hair with the other. Or maybe because her own life felt like it was shifting beneath her feet, and she couldn't quite see where it was heading.

She arrived at Dominic's office just before 8:30AM. The security guard at the front desk gave her a nod of recognition, and the receptionist—Camille—handed her a coffee without being asked.

"You're officially one of us now," Camille teased. "Next thing you know, you'll be stealing Dominic's favorite pens."

Eliana laughed. "If I survive the paperwork today, maybe."

Her studio space, tucked into a converted mezzanine overlooking part of the skyline, had already become familiar. She had a drafting table, two tall windows, a private digital sketchpad connected to the main office network, and more high-quality supplies than she'd ever touched in her life.

But what really made it different—what made it matter—was that Dominic hadn't asked her to become something else.

He'd just asked her to be more of herself.

That morning, he appeared in her workspace unannounced, holding a black notebook.

"I've marked a few themes," he said simply. "Not instructions—just prompts."

Eliana accepted the notebook. Their eyes met for a second longer than necessary.

"Is it weird," she said, "that I'm still waiting for the catch?"

"There isn't one," Dominic replied. Then, after a pause, "But if you find it, tell me. I'd like to know, too."

That afternoon, while finishing a soft charcoal sketch of an urban skyline melting into rain, Camille poked her head in.

"There's a woman here," she said. "Says she's with one of the foundations we support. She asked for you directly?"

Eliana frowned. "Did she give her name?"

Camille hesitated. "No, just said she knew your work."

Eliana stood, wiping her hands. "Okay. Where is she?"

"In the lobby."

But by the time Eliana reached the front, the woman was gone. Only a small envelope waited on the receptionist desk with her name written in loopy script.

Inside?

A note that simply read: "Your work speaks louder than you think. Keep going."

No name. No logo. No contact info.

It rattled her a little.

Not in fear—but in the sense that she was being seen more than she realized.

Back home, Jasmine had created a spreadsheet of all the therapeutic art programs she liked, ranking them by location, flexibility, and "vibe." She showed it to Eliana over dinner—chicken curry and store-bought naan Eliana had slightly burned.

"So this one—Heartstone Institute—looks more intimate than the others," Jasmine explained. "And they even have a pilot mentorship program. I could apply by next week."

Eliana chewed thoughtfully. "You're really doing this, huh?"

"I don't want to be just 'the girl who's sick' anymore," Jasmine said softly. "I want to be someone who helps people feel better."

Eliana reached across the table and squeezed her sister's hand. "Then let's make that happen."

The next day at work, Noah dropped by her studio between meetings, leaning against the doorway with a grin.

"You've got fans," he said.

Eliana blinked. "What?"

"Some of Dominic's old clients have been asking who's doing the new drafts. Apparently, there's talk of commissioning your work for a wellness lobby downtown."

Eliana nearly choked on her water. "You're joking."

"Nope. You're good, El. Don't act so surprised."

She didn't have words for that, but her cheeks flushed.

Then, right as he turned to leave, Noah added, "Also—don't let Dominic bulldoze your boundaries. If anything feels off, tell me."

Eliana tilted her head. "Is this a warning?"

"No," he said with a shrug. "It's a promise."