Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 133

Chapter 133

Elara

The VIP room at Lenox Hill smelled like antiseptic and expensive

flowers. Anya slept peacefully, monitors beeping a steady rhythm.

Raven sat beside me, gripping the armrest so hard her knuckles were

white.

“I have to pay this back,” she said. Her voice was flat. Decided.

I’d been expecting this. “Raven-”

“I know what you’re going to say. That he doesn’t care about the

money. That it’s nothing to him.” She turned to look at me. Her eyes

were red from crying but dry now. “But I care. I’m not going to owe

anyone. Especially not… that kind of person.”

She didn’t say Julian’s name. She didn’t have to.

I understood her wariness better than she knew. I’d lived it. In my

past life, every favor Julian did for me became a chain. Every gift became leverage. By the time I realized what was happening, I couldn’t move without his permission.

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“Then we figure it out together,” I said. “I have money, but…”

I couldn’t finish. That money felt wrong in my hands. It was

compensation for my father’s life. It was hush money. It was control

dressed up as generosity. Every dollar Julian transferred carried his

fingerprints.

Raven looked at me. Really looked. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

Something shifted in her face. The tension in her shoulders eased just

slightly. “Okay. We do this together.”

Two people in the same situation, I thought. Both trying to climb out.

Both refusing to be owned.

By Saturday afternoon, we were sitting on Diego’s floor in the Iron

District apartment. Raven had her phone out, scrolling through job

listings. Coffee shop barista–seven twenty–five an hour. Dog walker-

ten dollars per walk. Grocery store cashier–eight fifty an hour.

“The shifts don’t work,” she said, frustrated. “I need to visit Grandma

during visiting hours. And I can’t miss school or I’ll fail.”

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I stared at my art supply box in the corner. The idea had been forming

since yesterday.

“Brooklyn Flea,” I said.

Raven looked up. “The market?”

“I’ve seen street artists there. They do portrait sketches. Small

paintings. Cash business. Flexible hours.” I met her eyes. “I can paint.

You can help me talk to customers.”

Her face changed. Hope, maybe. Or just the relief of having a plan.

“That could work.”

Diego appeared in the doorway, holding a beer. He’d been listening.

“You talking about setting up a booth?”

“Maybe,” I said.

He set down his beer and disappeared into his room. When he came

back, he was carrying a portable easel. “You can borrow this. I used it

before I got my studio gig.” He thought for a second. “Price portraits at thirty to fifty dollars. Small paintings at one–fifty minimum.

Artists always undersell themselves.”

He paused. Looked at me seriously. “Also, use a fake name…”

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