Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 124

Chapter 124

Elara

The garage apartment was silent except for the hum of traffic outside.

I sat cross–legged on the floor, my notebook spread before me like

evidence at a crime scene.

Anna’s testimony. The timeline. The teacup. The supposed vial of

white powder.

I traced the words with my pen until the page tore.

“You can go ahead and check my family’s accounts.

”

She’d said it so confidently. So calmly. Like someone who’d been

coached, prepared, assured that every financial trail had been

scrubbed clean.

The police had already looked. Nothing. No large deposits. No

unexplained transfers.

Of course there weren’t. Anna was a Vane household employee–her payroll, her taxes, her entire paper trail ran through their system. If

someone wanted to pay her off, they’d know exactly how to hide it.

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And I had no way to dig deeper.

Not without resources I didn’t have. Not without access I’d never be

granted.

Not without him.

I stared at my phone for a long time. Julian’s last words at the police

station echoed: “If she’s innocent, the investigation will prove it.”

Was that a promise? Or just another empty phrase to keep me

compliant?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Pride told me to find another way. To solve this myself. To never give

him the satisfaction of my dependence.

But practicality–cold, ruthless practicality–told me I was out of

options.

I typed quickly, before I could change my mind:

“I need your help with Anna’s investigation.”

Sent.

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I set the phone down and waited. My pulse hammered against my

ribs.

The reply came forty minutes later.

“Tonight. 8PM. My apartment. Upper East Side.”

An address followed. Nothing more.

No questions. No warmth. Just a time and a place.

The next evening, I stood outside the Upper East Side building and

felt the weight of déjà vu settle over me like a shroud.

I’d dressed simply–black turtleneck, jeans, no makeup. Deliberately

unremarkable. Deliberately not trying to please him.

The doorman recognized me from before and waved me through

without question.

The elevator rose. My reflection stared back from the polished steel-

hollow–eyed, pale, tense.

This is different, I told myself. I’m awake this time. I know what he is.

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I’m only here for information.

But my hands shook as the doors slid open.

Julian answered on the first knock.

He wore a charcoal gray sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His

hair was damp–he’d showered recently. The scent of cedarwood and

something clean drifted toward me.

“Come in,” he said. Not a greeting. A command.

I stepped inside. The apartment was exactly as I remembered: floor- to–ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline glittering beyond, leather

furniture arranged with precision.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, a glass of whiskey in one hand,

watching me.

“So,” he said lazily, “You need my help now?”

I met his gaze. “You said you’d investigate. I’m just here to remind

you.”

His mouth curved. “I also said you’d find evidence yourself.

Remember?”

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“Anna is part of the Vane household staff,” I said evenly. “I can’t

access those records without your authority.”

“So you admit you need me.”

“I need your resources.” I kept my voice flat. “That’s all.”

He set down his glass and crossed the room. Stopped three feet away.

Too close. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his

stare.

“What are you willing to trade for my help?”

I froze. “You already promised—”

“I changed my mind.” His tone was silk over steel. “You said you didn’t

need me, remember? So why should I help?”

Anger flared. “You said you’d find the truth! This isn’t about me or

you, it’s about justice!”

He laughed a low, bitter sound. “Justice? In my world, everything has

a price.”

My throat closed. “What do you want?”

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His eyes tracked over me. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then he said, very quietly: “Take it off.”

The world tilted.

I thought of the glass house. The locked doors. The way he’d looked at

me that night–like I was something he owned.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the hem of my sweater.

“Stop.”

I looked up. He was smiling now. Not warmth. Something crueler.

“Did I say clothes?” His voice was mocking. “Where did your mind go,

Elara?”

Heat flooded my face. Shame. Rage, “Then what the hell do you

want?!”

He gestured to the couch. “Your pants. Let me see your knees.”

I stared at him.

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“The ones you destroyed kneeling for the whole night,” he said coolly.

“Or you can leave. Without my help.”

I sat. Peeled off my jeans with shaking hands.

The bruises had darkened–ugly purples and yellows spreading across

both kneecaps. Some of the scabs had cracked and bled through the

bandages.

Julian disappeared into the bathroom. Returned with a medical kit.

He knelt in front of me.

My breath caught.

“Don’t move,” he said.

His fingers were careful. Almost gentle. He cleaned the wounds with

saline, applied antibiotic ointment, re–bandaged them with steady

hands.

I watched his face. The furrow between his brows. The way his jaw

tightened when I flinched.

I remember this, I thought distantly.

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A memory surfaced–years ago, before everything shattered. I’d fallen