Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana watched Noah disappear down the corridor, his footsteps soft against the polished floors, his last words lingering like a question she wasn't ready to answer.

"It's a promise," he'd said.

Not a warning. Not advice. Just... a quiet loyalty. One she hadn't asked for, but maybe needed more than she knew.

Back at her desk, the city light poured through the tall windows and stretched long shadows across her sketchpad. She tried to return to her charcoal lines, but something about that brief conversation stirred an ache she couldn't name.

By five, the office had begun to quiet down. Camille passed by on her way out, offering a lazy wave and a "Don't work too hard," while the buzz of printers slowed, and hallway chatter faded into the kind of hush that only fell when the sun slipped behind buildings.

Eliana finished packing her things slowly, her movements deliberate. She slid the notebook Dominic had given her into her tote bag—still untouched beyond the first few pages he'd marked. Her fingers lingered on the worn spine before she zipped the bag closed.

As she stepped into the elevator, her phone buzzed.

Jasmine: "Pick up some almond milk if the store's still open. Oh—and I made something. You'll see."

The message ended with a sunflower emoji and a GIF of a dancing cat.

Eliana smiled and leaned against the elevator wall. Whatever waited at home, it already sounded better than office air and coffee breath.

Outside, the evening was crisp. She took the longer route back—partly to clear her head, partly because her feet always seemed to crave the chaos of street noise when her thoughts got too loud.

She passed a bakery just closing up, a couple arguing in Spanish outside a corner laundromat, a boy skateboarding across cracked pavement. New York had a way of making everyone's life feel cinematic from the outside. It was only from the inside that the scripts fell apart.

By the time she reached her building, her fingers were cold and her nose pink from the wind. She juggled the tote bag, the almond milk, and her keys, and finally got the door open with a grunt.

"Jas?" she called as she stepped inside. "I come bearing nut-based beverages and slightly frostbitten hands."

"I'm in the kitchen!"

The smell hit her first—something sweet, citrusy, and totally unfamiliar.

Eliana dropped her things on the counter and froze. "What is that?"

Jasmine turned, grinning. Her hair was pinned up in a messy bun, flour on her cheek, an apron that read Whisk Taker tied over her hoodie. "Lemon lavender scones with honey glaze. You like?"

Eliana blinked. "Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?"

"I watched one baking tutorial and decided I'm basically British now."

She held out a plate like it was a sacred offering. Eliana took a bite, her eyebrows shooting up. "This is... actually good."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Didn't you once burn toast while boiling water?"

Jasmine threw a dish towel at her. "We don't talk about that year."

They collapsed onto the couch, the scones between them, laughter filling the corners of the apartment. For a moment, it felt like everything had softened. The pressure, the worry, the weight of what-ifs.

"So," Jasmine said after a while, "work was good?"

Eliana hesitated, then nodded. "It's... strange. In a good way…like, no one's hovering over me, but also—everything I do feels like it matters. There's weight to it."

Jasmine tilted her head. "Do you like that?"

"I think so," Eliana said slowly. "I've spent so long just trying to survive—doing side gigs, chasing commissions, scraping by. Now it's like... I have space and it scares me how much I want to keep it."

"Because it feels like it's not really yours?"

Eliana looked at her sister, surprised by the accuracy.

Jasmine shrugged. "I get it. You're not used to people giving you things without expecting something back."

A pause.

Eliana nodded. "Exactly."

Jasmine set her plate down. "Well, I hope you get used to it because you deserve good things, Liana. Not just hand-me-down dreams."

They watched a documentary that neither of them paid much attention to, then called it a night. Eliana stayed up later than she meant to, sketching absentmindedly, the note from the mysterious woman at work still tucked in the back of her thoughts.

The next morning, Dominic was in the building early.

When Eliana arrived, he was already pacing the upstairs mezzanine, coffee in hand, suit jacket draped over his arm. He stopped when he saw her.

"I want you to come with me to a meeting today."

Eliana blinked. "What kind of meeting?"

"Client pitch. They're interested in a full branding overhaul—design, visual identity, digital feel. I think your style might speak to them."

Eliana hesitated. "I'm not really a... pitch person."

"You don't have to say anything," Dominic replied. "Just observe. Get a feel for it. Your presence might help."

She wasn't sure what that meant, but she nodded. "Okay."

An hour later, they were inside a glass-walled conference room in Midtown. Dominic stood at the head of the table like he owned time itself, while Eliana sat quietly to his left, flipping through a printed mock-up of brand palettes she'd only half-realized had come from her own sketches.

The clients—a trio of wellness startup founders in linen suits and expensive sneakers—seemed intrigued.

Dominic gestured to one of Eliana's sample visuals. "This palette," he said, "came from someone who doesn't think like a corporate designer. Which is exactly what your audience needs."

Eliana felt eyes on her. One of the founders leaned forward. "You made this?"

She nodded.

He smiled. "It's good, real and not like the usual agency fluff."

By the end of the hour, they had a soft commitment and a follow-up set for next week.

On the ride back, Dominic didn't say much. But before she stepped out of the car, he handed her a folder.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Their initial notes. If you want to take the lead on the visual concept, it's yours."

Eliana blinked. "You trust me with that?"

Dominic didn't look at her. "I trust what I see."

That night, Eliana got home to find Jasmine curled up in bed with a heating pad and a strained expression.

"Bad day?" Eliana asked softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Jasmine nodded. "Just tired and achy, nothing new."

Eliana brushed her hair back. "Did you decide on the school?"

"I think I'm going to apply to the Heartstone one," Jasmine murmured. "The deadline's next week."

"Then let's work on it together tomorrow."

Jasmine gave a small smile. "You're the best."

"You're the one who made me scones. This is payback."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Jasmine added, "Do you ever feel like you're finally on the edge of something... real?"

Eliana thought about the meeting, about Dominic's folder, about the woman with no name who left her a note at reception.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I do."

Jasmine reached for her hand, and they stayed like that until the city lights dimmed.

The next day brought something unexpected.

An email. From the gallery that once rejected Eliana's work two years ago.

We've been following your recent projects. Would love to talk about a showcase next season. Are you available for a meeting next week?

She stared at the screen in disbelief.

When she told Dominic, he didn't say much. Just raised an eyebrow and said, "You going to take it?"

Eliana didn't know yet.

But she would find out soon.

And something in her gut told her—

The past wasn't finished with her yet.