Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 116

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Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second

Chapter 116

Elara

His lips crushed against mine with bruising force, one hand fisting in

my carefully pinned hair, scattering pins across the floor with soft

metallic clinks. The other hand slid to the small of my back, pressing

me flush against him, eliminating every inch of space between our

bodies.

I gasped–shock, protest, I didn’t know–and he took immediate

advantage, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, claiming,

demanding. The kiss tasted like whiskey and something darker,

something that made my knees weak and my hands clutch helplessly

at his jacket.

I should push him away. Should bite, should fight, should-

But my body betrayed me. Again. Always.

My lips parted wider, my head tilting back as he deepened the kiss

with a low sound that rumbled through his chest into mine. His hand

in my hair tightened, angling my head exactly where he wanted it,

controlling every aspect of the kiss with the same precision he

controlled everything else in his life.

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When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to speak, his

forehead pressed against mine, breath coming hard and fast.

“You looked at me like that all through dinner,” he said, voice raw.

“Like you were trying to memorize my face. Like-” He cut himself off,

jaw clenching.

“I wasn’t-”

“Don’t.” His thumb pressed against my swollen lower lip, silencing

1. me. “Don’t lie. Not about this.”

My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack a rib. “What do

you want from me?”

Something bleak flashed across his face. “I don’t know. But I can’t

seem to stop wanting it.”

Then he stepped back, releasing me so abruptly I swayed. He turned

away, running a hand through his hair, destroying its perfect styling.

“Fix your hair,” he said flatly, not looking at me. “We need to go

down.”

I stood frozen, fingers pressed to my tingling lips, watching his rigid

shoulders.

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“Julian-”

“Now, Elara.”

The coldness in his voice was like a slap. I bent to gather the

scattered hairpins with shaking hands, my reflection in the mirror

showing kiss–bruised lips and wild eyes.

What was I doing? What were we doing?

But I already knew the answer.

We were destroying each other. One kiss, one touch, one moment of

weakness at a time.

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The grand staircase swept down into the ballroom like something out

of a movie. I followed Julian, my hand hovering near the banister,

suddenly self–conscious.

The champagne dress moved like water, the fabric skimming my skin

with every step. I’d swept my hair up into a loose twist, secured with a

single pin I’d found in the bathroom. Nothing fancy. But it felt…

Different.

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The conversations below began to fade. One by one, faces turned

upward.

“My God, is that the same girl?”

“She looks stunning…”

“Julian certainly knows how to pick them…”

My cheeks burned. I kept my eyes fixed on Julian’s shoulders, on the

confident set of his spine as he descended.

The front doors opened just as we reached the bottom of the stairs.

Sloane Kennedy swept in. Her smile was radiant–until she saw me.

For one satisfying moment, her expression went slack with shock.

Then it hardened into something cold and sharp.

I smiled back. Small. Deliberate.

Julian paused at the base of the stairs, one hand extended toward me.

I stared at his palm. Strong fingers, neat nails, the kind of hand that

signed contracts worth millions.

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He waited.

The entire room watched.

I placed my hand in his.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and firm, and for just a second,

they tightened–possessive, claiming–before he guided me down the

last step.

Every eye in that ballroom was on us. On Julian Vane, escorting his

adoptive sister like she was someone who mattered.

I didn’t look at Sloane. But I felt her gaze burning into my back.

Heard the sharp intake of breath.

Mr. Vane Senior sat in a carved mahogany chair near the fireplace,

accepting well–wishes and gifts from a steady stream of guests.

Bottles of rare scotch. First–edition books. A vintage Rolex.

When Sloane’s turn came, she gestured to two staff members, who

carefully carried in a large, beautifully framed painting.

“Mr. Vane,” Sloane said, her voice warm and practiced, “this is a

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painting of pines and cranes. I brought it back from China specifically

for you.”

She let the pause linger, making sure everyone was listening.

“It took me three months to track down. The seller said it was painted

by a renowned contemporary Chinese master. I paid fifty thousand

dollars for it.” Her smile was luminous. “Wishing you a very happy

birthday and many more to come!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“Fifty thousand!”

“A Chinese master’s work–how thoughtful!”

“Mr. Vane is truly fortunate!”

Sloane’s eyes flicked to me, triumphant. Challenging.

Mr. Vane Senior beamed, clearly pleased. “Sloane, you’re too

generous. So much money…”

I stepped forward before I could think better of it.

“That painting,” I said quietly, “isn’t suitable for a birthday

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celebration.”

The room went silent.

Sloane’s head whipped toward me. “Excuse me?”

I met her gaze steadily. “You spent fifty thousand dollars on a funeral

painting, Miss Kennedy. I’m afraid… you’ve been scammed.”

The murmurs exploded.

“A funeral painting?”

“No…”

“Are you sure?”

Mr. Vane Senior’s smile vanished. His face darkened to an alarming

shade of red.

And Julian-

Julian’s hand on my elbow was suddenly very, very tight.

The silence stretched. Every eye in that ballroom fixed on the

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painting–the supposedly auspicious pines and cranes that I’d just

declared a funeral piece.

Julian’s grip on my elbow tightened until I could feel each individual

finger digging into bone.

An elderly gentleman in wire–rimmed glasses stepped forward,

adjusting his spectacles as he peered at the artwork. The crowd

parted for him automatically. Someone whispered, “That’s Professor

Smith from the Met.”

Professor Smith bent close to examine the brushwork, his expression

growing increasingly grave.

“The young lady is correct.” His voice carried across the silent room.

“I’ve studied traditional Chinese painting for thirty years. The pine’s

composition uses reverse brush technique–see how the branches

slope downward? That symbolizes ill fortune, not longevity. And the

crane…” He pointed to the bird’s posture. “The lowered head and

drooping neck–this is a mourning stance. In birthday paintings,

cranes should be depicted with heads raised, eyes bright and forward-

looking.”

He traced the air above the painting. “Most telling is the ink work on

the eyes. This focal ink technique is characteristic of funeral art. The

crane’s gaze is directed downward, filled with sorrow rather than

vitality.”

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Murmurs erupted.

“A funeral painting…”

“At a birthday celebration…”

“Fifty thousand dollars for that?”

Sloane’s face cycled through emotions–red to white to a sickly gray-

green. Her lips trembled.

“No… that’s impossible… the seller specifically said it was a longevity

piece… I paid fifty thousand dollars…” Her voice cracked.

“Fifty grand for a funeral painting,” someone stage–whispered.

“How unlucky can you get?”

“Poor girl got scammed hard…”

Mr. Vane Senior’s face turned an alarming shade of purple. He

slammed his cane against the floor. “Remove it! Immediately! Bad

omen!”

“I… I didn’t know… Mr. Vane, I swear I didn’t know…” Tears gathered