Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana didn't return to the studio for two days.

It wasn't on purpose at first. Jasmine had a rough flare that her joints so swollen she couldn't stand without wincing, Eliana spent hours holding a heating pad to her knees, making bland soups, running to the pharmacy twice in the same day. Time passed in blinks, each hour stitched together with worry and exhaustion.

When the worst of it passed, Eliana found herself sitting on the edge of her mattress in the middle of the night, fingers laced under her chin.

She should have felt good, she should have felt relieved that the worst had eased but she didn't because she hadn't painted not in two days not even a sketch and something about that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

On the third day, Jasmine was well enough to joke again.

She sat cross-legged on the couch, scribbling into one of her notebooks, hair wild around her face. "Are you avoiding your sugar daddy?" she asked with a smirk.

Eliana, who had just taken a sip of tea, choked. "Excuse me?"

"Dominic, the mysterious art sponsor. You haven't gone to the studio since Tuesday."

"He's not Jasmine, oh my God."

Jasmine cackled. "I'm just saying. A man funds your dreams, sends you flowers, and doesn't ask for anything in return? Either he's secretly dying or he's in love with you."

Eliana rolled her eyes and turned back to the sink. "Or maybe he's just invested in good art."

"Yeah, okay. And maybe I'm a unicorn."

Eliana didn't argue. Not because she agreed, but because part of her had started to wonder the same thing.

Why her?

Why this?

And why did his silence feel so loud?

She finally returned to the studio that afternoon. The keys felt heavier in her hand, the door creaked when she pushed it open.

Inside, everything was exactly as she left it-very clean, bright and quiet but on the center table, there was something new. A small box, wrapped in deep green paper with a black ribbon tied carefully on top, no note and no signature just as usual.

Eliana didn't touch it at first. She circled it and looked at it like it might explode.

Then, after a long breath, she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, inside it was a worn, leather-bound sketchbook.

The first page was blank but tucked inside the cover was a photograph—her painting of the woman by the fountain. Someone had photographed it, printed it, and placed it neatly inside.

On the back, a message in small, typed font:

"When you forget what you are, open this."

Her heart tripped over itself.

Dominic, it has to be him and yet... there was something almost too gentle about the gesture.

She sat down on the nearest stool and stared at the empty pages, something opened in her a little, but enough.

She opened her own pencil case, took out the charcoal stick, and began to draw. The first sketch was simple.

A girl standing barefoot in a puddle, rain pouring down around her but a single umbrella suspended above her—not by hands, but by air. The second sketch was of a pair of hands—wrinkled, strong, holding a paintbrush with just the tips of the fingers.

She didn't think. She just drew, for the first time in days, her chest didn't ache.

That evening, Dominic didn't call, he didn't text and he didn't visit and somehow, that steadied her even more.

The next morning, Eliana dropped Jasmine off at her weekend therapy group, it was a free program for teens with chronic illness—supportive, kind, full of beanbags and journal prompts. Jasmine hated it and loved it at the same time.

Eliana waited outside in a nearby café, sipping bitter coffee and sketching on a napkin.

At one point, her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She stared at it for a moment before answering.

"Eliana."

His voice again. Calm, deep, threaded with something softer than she remembered.

"You didn't check in," he said.

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to."

A pause.

"You're right," he replied. "That was poorly phrased. I meant… I noticed your absence. That's all."

She shifted in her seat. The window beside her caught her reflection—tired eyes, tangled curls, a smudge of graphite across her cheek.

"I've been busy," she said.

"I gathered, Jasmine right?"

"She had a flare. She's okay now."

Another pause.

"I'm glad to hear it."

She expected him to end the call, instead, he said, "There's no deadline, you know."

"I know."

"And no expectation for more than you choose to give."

Eliana swallowed. "That's not how people usually work."

"I'm not people."

She almost smiled.

"Would you… ever consider lunch?" he asked.

There it was, the shift.

Her fingers tightened on the phone.

"I don't know," she said.

"I understand it's just lunch, not a gallery pitch, not a favor, just… time."

She said nothing.

"I'll text you the place and you have to come."

Then the line went dead.

That evening, Jasmine fell asleep early.

Eliana stood at the window, the city lights flickering like distant candles.

The text came through an hour later.

Dominic: 12:30.

 Elowen Street Bistro. 

No pressure.

She stared at the screen for a long time then she turned it off and went to bed, she didn't decide until the next morning.

She woke up late, took too long choosing a shirt, she later ended up wearing in a loose grey dress and her oldest boots with no makeup, no style her hair. If she was going to show up, she'd show up as herself she thought.

The restaurant was small, quiet, tucked between two flower shops. She almost missed it.

He was already inside, dressed in charcoal again, clean lines, simple watch and a book open on the table beside a glass of water.

He stood when she entered.

"You came," he said.

"Don't sound so surprised."

He smiled faintly and gestured to the seat across from him.

The waiter came, they ordered quickly which was sandwiches, soup, nothing much extravagant.

She watched him.

He didn't fidget, didn't fill the silence unnecessarily. He let her look.

"Why do you do this?" she asked finally. "Fund artists, commission stranger and give without even asking."

His gaze didn't waver. "Because someone once did it for me."

She blinked. "You were a painter?"

"No, but I could've been. I used to draw before business, before inheritance, before I realized how easily money replaces talent when you're desperate to survive."

There was something hollow in his voice. Like a story buried under too much time.

"I see what I lost in others," he said. "And sometimes… if I'm lucky… I get to preserve it."

She didn't know what to say to that.

So she just said, "Thank you."

He didn't nod. Didn't respond like it was owed to hi, he just took a sip of his water and changed the subject.

They talked for an hour, about nothing and everything. Favorite cities, old books and the way New York winters made you want to disappear into flannel and cheap coffee.

He never once asked about her next painting and when the check came, he make a show of paying for it, she let him because, for once, it didn't feel like a transaction but felt like something else. Something beginning.

After lunch, he didn't ask to walk her home.

He just said, "I'll see you again."

And she nodded, because she knew they would.

Eliana didn't take the train straight home.

Instead, she wandered, through the side streets, past shop windows, letting the wind push her coat open and the city buzz beneath her feet.

Something in her had shifted not in a dramatic or fireworks kind of way more like a chair nudged slightly out of place — small, but noticeable. She wasn't used to being seen without being dissected but Dominic… he had listened, not probed, looked, not gawked.

It unnerved her, it also warmed something hollow.

She stopped in front of a used bookstore with crooked shelves and a "Buy 1 Get 1 Free" sign taped to the glass. She stepped in without thinking.

The air smelled like paper and dust and quiet.

She wasn't looking for anything but her fingers drifted across the spines anyway, touching titles she'd never read, authors she'd never heard of. At the back of the store, a small, tattered art book caught her eye—European Masters, the title barely legible.

She opened it to a random page and there it was. A painting of a woman by a fountain not hers but similar enough to punch the air from her lungs.

She bought the book for three dollars and carried it pressed against her chest the entire walk home.

That night, Jasmine was curled up on the couch, half-watching reruns of some old teen drama. Her face looked better—less pale, more color returning to her cheeks. She looked up when Eliana walked in.

"You look… weirdly peaceful," she said, eyeing her sister like she didn't quite trust the emotion.

Eliana tossed the book onto the table and collapsed next to her.

"I had lunch."

Jasmine perked. "With him?"

A pause.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"It was fine."

"Fine?"

Eliana turned her head, smirking. "Don't make a thing out of it."

"Too late because I already did."

They fell into comfortable silence, the kind only people who've shared years of exhaustion and quiet battles can manage. Jasmine shifted her feet onto Eliana's lap, Eliana didn't complain.

"I want to try school again," Jasmine said suddenly.

Eliana blinked. "What?"

"I was thinking about it during group just part-time. A few online classes, maybe one in person, I know I might not finish fast, but… I miss learning stuff, real stuff not just random YouTube deep dives."

Eliana swallowed past the lump in her throat. "You think you're up for it?"

Jasmine gave her a look. "I'm sick, not dead."

Eliana laughed. Then, softer: "Okay If you're serious, we'll make it happen."

"Cool."

A beat.

"Also," Jasmine said, grinning. "If you and Dominic end up dating, I'm totally inviting him to career day."

"Shut up, Jaz."

Eliana stayed up late that night not sketching, not painting-Just… thinking.

She stared at the ceiling from her mattress on the floor and tried to imagine what six commissioned pieces would even look like. What they could feel like, what they could mean.

Dominic hadn't pressured her, he hadn't even asked if she was going to sign but the check still sat on her desk. Untouched and unspent.

And now, there was a sketchbook too. A message in the cove, a lunch where he didn't ask, didn't imply, didn't dangle anything over her head.

Could it really be that simple?

Was there ever such a thing as no strings?

The next morning, she went to the studio without thinking. No one had been in since she left it, but somehow it felt different like the room was holding its breath.

She stood in front of a blank canvas, breathing slowly and then she painted.

Hours passed.

She didn't check her phone, didn't eat, barely even stood but when she stepped back, what stared back at her was something she didn't expect.

It was a portrait not of Dominic, but of a man in shadow — face undefined, suit half-formed, background blurred, like memory layered over myth. A figure who existed not in reality, but in the spaces between.

She didn't sign it, she just leaned it against the wall, wiped her hands on her jeans, and sank to the floor.

The next few days were quiet.

Dominic didn't call and strangely, Eliana didn't mind.

She needed the stillness. She used it to sketched more, slept better, even remembered to eat most days.

She and Jasmine made pancakes one morning and almost set the stove on fire.

On Friday, Eliana received a short email.

Subject: Dropoff

Text: I'll have someone retrieve any completed pieces on Monday. If you wish to proceed, the contract terms will take effect retroactively, if you don't wish to proceed, consider the check a gift and destroy the contract. No further obligations, no follow-up. 

Either way, thank you for your work.

No signature.

Just that clear, simple, respectful and, maddeningly, impossible to ignore.

Eliana sat in the studio with the contract on her lap and stared at it for over an hour. The sketchbook sat beside her, open to the first drawing. The girl in the puddle, she thought about all the ways this could go wrong but more than that, she thought about all the ways her life had already gone wrong — and how, despite all of it, she was still here.

Maybe this wasn't a miracle but maybe… just maybe… it was a crack of light.

She stood, walked to her desk and signed her name.

Not for Dominic, not even for the money but for herself because for the first time in a long time, she wasn't painting to survive.

She was painting to speak.