Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 119

Elara

Mr. Vane Senior dismissed me with a wave of his liver–spotted hand.

“Go back and wait for the investigation results.” His voice carried the

same tone one might use to dismiss a servant who’d spilled wine.

“We’ll contact you when we have… clarity.”

I pushed myself up from the marble floor. My legs buckled immediately–nine hours of kneeling had turned them into dead weights, pins and needles exploding through both limbs. I swayed,

caught myself against a side table.

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“Careful now,” Tristan murmured from his perch by the fireplace, voice dripping with false concern. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt

yourself on the way out.”

Victoria smirked from the doorway. “Don’t think this is over, Elara.

When the truth comes out, you’ll regret-”

“I’ll be fine,” I cut her off. My voice came out hoarse but steady.

“Thank you for your concern.”

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Julian was on his phone near the window, his back to me. “-yes, keep

monitoring her vitals. I’ll be there within the hour.” A pause. “Sloane,

I said I’m coming. Just… rest.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me, mouth opening as if to speak. “I’ll

send-”

His phone buzzed again. He looked down at the screen, frown

deepening. “It’s the hospital. I have to-” He was already turning

away, phone pressed to his ear. “Dr. Chen? What’s wrong?”

I didn’t wait to hear more.

The iron gates of Blackwood Estate clanged shut behind me at 5:47

1. AM. The sound echoed down the empty street like a verdict.

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My legs screamed with every step. The champagne–colored dress-

Julian’s dress–was wrinkled and damp with cold sweat. My carefully

styled hair from last night hung in tangled strands around my face. I

must have looked like I’d crawled out of someone’s one–night stand.

The thought made me laugh. A bitter, broken sound that startled a

early–morning jogger passing by.

Fifth Avenue was deserted. The subway wouldn’t start running for

another hour. I tried to hail a cab–one, two, three yellow cars slowed,

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then sped up again when I told them the destination.

“Bronx? Lady, it’s five in the morning. Find someone else.”

The fourth driver didn’t even let me finish. He took one look at my disheveled appearance and hit the gas.

I checked my phone. $4.73 in my bank account. My wallet was back at the Iron District garage. Even if I could get an Uber, I couldn’t pay for

1. it.

So I walked.

Down Fifth Avenue, the hem of my dress dragging against sidewalk

grime. Past the sleeping mansions of the Upper East Side, their

windows dark and indifferent. Through Central Park as the sky turned from black to gray, my heels clicking against the pavement in a rhythm that matched my throbbing pulse.

Pain became a constant companion. Every step sent knives through

my kneecaps–the skin had broken sometime during the night, blood seeping through the delicate fabric and drying into stiff patches. My feet blistered in the expensive heels. The thin coat I’d grabbed on the way out did nothing against December’s bite.

I passed early–morning delivery trucks, a homeless man curled under

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a pile of cardboard, a deli owner rolling up his shutters. Normal

people. People whose biggest concern was probably whether they’d

remembered to buy milk, not whether they’d survive a powerful

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