Beneath His Billion-Dollar Shadow

Eliana didn't sleep again.

Not really, she dozed in flashes, dreams pulling at her like waves. When she gave up and pulled herself out of bed, the sky outside was still ink-black, the first blush of morning nowhere in sight. She showered in silence, dressed in jeans stiff with old paint, and layered a hoodie over a tank top. The air was thick with summer clinging to its final breath. Brooklyn never really cooled down in September.

By the time she reached her studio, the sun had begun to stretch, casting thin shadows across the sidewalk. She stood for a moment, keys in hand, staring up at the chipped letters of her name etched faintly on the studio door. "Eliana Brooks Studio"—faded, cracked, and quietly daring.

Inside, the air was dry and familiar, the scent of gesso and old canvases wrapped around her like a second skin.

She dropped her bag near the wall and pulled the blinds halfway open, light spilled in. The painting she'd finished still leaned against the table, wrapped and ready for Noah's next visit. She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she kind of liked the way he respected the art without acting like it was glass.

Today wasn't for painting, it was for sorting.

She dragged two old crates out from under her supply table—pieces she hadn't looked at in over a year, some were rejects, others unfinished things that never felt right. She sat on the floor cross-legged and started flipping through them.

Ten minutes in, she found a sketch of Jasmine. From last year—pre-fever, pre-clinic, pre-nightmare. Her sister's head was tilted slightly, her hair a wild halo, her smile crooked and stubborn.

Eliana stared at it for a long time, she didn't hear the knock at first.

Then it came again—two short raps, polite but certain.

She opened the door to find an older woman with short gray hair, a heavy tote bag, and kind, tired eyes.

"Grandma Elise?" Eliana asked before she could stop herself.

The woman smiled. "You still remember."

They hugged briefly, the way people do when too many years have gotten in the way.

"I was just in the neighborhood," Grandma Elise said, stepping inside with practiced curiosity. "Wanted to see if the place still smelled like turpentine and stubbornness."

"It does," Eliana said. "Probably always will."

They sat on the old loveseat near the window, and Elise pulled out a small bundle of cookies wrapped in wax paper.

"Bribery," she said. "And an excuse to check on you."

They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Then Elise said, "You look tired, not just tired—worn."

Eliana shrugged. "It's been a month, a year."

"I heard about the contract," Elise said softly.

Eliana's head snapped up.

"Not from your sister and not from anyone either. Word travels, your work has voice, Ellie. People are listening now."

Eliana swallowed. "I don't know what to do with it."

"Just don't waste it." Elise's voice gentled. "And don't let a fancy suit make you forget your own compass."

They spoke for another hour—about art, about grief, about her mother's laugh and the first painting Eliana ever made. When Elise finally stood to leave, she rested a hand on Eliana's shoulder.

"You were born with fire," she said. "Don't let the world put it out with cold hands."

After she left, Eliana locked the door and leaned her head against it and finally—finally—she cried not because she was broken, because something in her was starting to thaw.

After Elise left, Eliana didn't paint.

She sat on the edge of the loveseat for a while, the air still holding the scent of almond cookies and worn fabric. Her eyes lingered on the wrapped piece Noah had taken and then drifted to the crate still open beside her, full of old ghosts in ink and pastel.

Eventually, she gathered her things. Locked up the studio and walked two blocks to the train.

Brooklyn was slower today, the city hadn't shaken off the humidity. She wiped sweat from her neck with the back of her hand and tried not to think too much.

The train was late, it always was on Sundays. She stood on the platform staring at a faded poster about mindfulness, the corners peeling like they were giving up too.

By the time she reached the apartment, Jasmine was curled on the couch, knees hugged to her chest, flipping through an old graphic novel with a yellowing cover. They were in the living room—where the fan hummed like it was holding back a storm.

"Hey," Eliana said, kicking off her shoes.

Jasmine looked up and grinned. "You missed soup day."

"I didn't know there was one."

"There is now."

Eliana sniffed the air. "What kind?"

"Canned tomato, fancy."

They both laughed. The kind of tired laugh that tasted like survival.

She sat beside Jasmine, pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, and draped it across both their legs.

Jasmine looked at her sideways. "You saw someone."

Eliana didn't ask how she knew. Jasmine always knew.

"Elise dropped by the studio."

Jasmine blinked. "Whoa you mean Grandma Elise?"

"Yeah."

"I haven't seen her since…."

"I know."

"Was it weird?"

"No. It was… grounding."

They sat in silence for a while. The city murmured outside—cars, someone arguing on the fire escape, a siren two blocks over.

Then Jasmine whispered, "I don't want to be sick forever."

Eliana didn't answer right away.

"I know," she said softly. "I don't want you to be either."

"I feel like a shadow of who I'm supposed to be."

"You're more than enough, Jaz. Even on your tired days."

"But I want to be more."

And there it was.

Eliana turned, gently placed a hand on her sister's knee.

"Then we keep fighting. Together."

Jasmine nodded slowly. "Okay."

And just like that, the moment passed. Heavy, but not crushing.

Eliana made toast, Jasmine pretended to hate it. They watched reruns of a show neither of them cared about until the sky faded to a soft plum blue and in the quiet, Eliana let her heart breathe.

The next morning, Eliana left early. Jasmine was still asleep, and she scribbled a note before locking the door: 

"Back in a bit. Don't forget your medicines. Love you Eli."

She took the long route to the art supply shop not because she needed to, but because walking calmed her. The city was already awake: dogs tugging their humans across crosswalks, delivery guys balancing pastry boxes, music pulsing from open windows.

She stopped at a small shop nestled between a bodega and a tailor's storefront. The sign above the door was crooked and hand-painted: PALMER'S ARTS & ODDS.

Inside, the bell jingled low and sleepy.

"Morning, Brooks," called a voice from behind the register.

Tobey Palmer was in his sixties, with silver dreadlocks and reading glasses that constantly slipped down his nose. He'd owned the place for as long as Eliana had lived in the neighborhood. She remembered visiting once with her mom, years ago, and buying a single pastel stick with the last of her allowance.

"Hey, Tobey," she said, brushing dust off her jacket. "You get the new oils in?"

"Check the back shelf at the left corner. I stashed a cobalt blue I knew you'd fight someone over."

She grinned. "You know me too well."

As she walked through the tight aisles stacked with jars, brushes, and sketchpads, she noticed someone else in the corner—a young woman, probably college-aged, with red braids and paint-stained overalls. She was comparing brush tips with the focus of a heart surgeon.

"Are those any good?" Eliana asked casually.

The girl looked up, startled at first. Then she smiled. "Depends on the canvas."

They fell into a short conversation about strokes and surfaces, favorite brands, what colors gave the best bleed on dry paper. It felt easy like breath.

"I'm Eliana," she said.

"Marcie. I go to Pratt."

"Nice."

They exchanged numbers before Marcie left with a bundle of brushes and a promise to stop by Eliana's studio sometime. It felt strange—good strange—to connect with someone who didn't know about contracts or mysterious billionaires or quiet desperation.

When Eliana returned to the front, Tobey raised an eyebrow.

"You made a new friend."

"Maybe," she said.

"About time."

She left the shop with her bag heavier and her shoulders a little lighter.

Eliana turned the corner near the subway but didn't go down the stairs. Instead, she sat on the bench just outside a closed-down coffee shop, the kind that used to play soft jazz and have scones no one actually liked but bought anyway. It had shut its doors six months ago, another casualty of a city that didn't stop for anyone not even good espresso.

She pulled out her sketchpad and let it rest on her knees. People walked by: a couple arguing over brunch plans, a street performer humming a mournful tune on a saxophone, a woman holding a balloon for a child who wasn't smiling. Eliana let her pencil glide across the page, fast and loose. None of it would be framed, or sold, or even saved. It was just for her.

She used to do this more. Let the city bleed into her hand until the shapes made sense.

After an hour, she stood and walked home slowly. She stopped to get bagels from a street cart and grabbed an orange soda because Jasmine had been craving one last week but they'd run out. It was strange, how small things felt like wins now.

Back at the apartment, Jasmine was propped up on the bed, books spread out like a fort around her.

"Guess what," Eliana said, tossing the soda onto the mattress.

Jasmine gasped and cradled it like treasure. "You found it!"

"I did."

"You are my queen."

"And don't you forget it."

She make food for both her and jasmine, they ate bagels on the bed, crumbs everywhere, and she and Jasmine gist a little bit before going to bed.

Later that evening, as the shadows grew long and the city dimmed into a murmur of headlights and distant music, Eliana stood in front of a blank canvas again not for the contract, not for the gallery just for her.

But as her hand hovered over the first stroke, her phone buzzed on the table.

A message.

From an unknown number.

"I'm sending a car tomorrow. 

You don't have to come. But I hope you will. – D."

She stared at it.

Not a demand, not pressure just an invitation.

For once, the silence didn't feel like an empty space—but a door and she had a choice.

Eliana set down the phone, looked back at the canvas, and finally let herself paint.