Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 139

Chapter 139

Elara

The night air in the Bronx pressed against my window like something

alive–police sirens wailing in the distance, a couple arguing in rapid-

fire Spanish downstairs, the low thrum of Yuki’s music bleeding

through the wall.

I lay on my narrow bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling that

looked like continents I’d never visit, my body exhausted but my

mind refusing to let go of the day.

I should have been asleep. I should have been planning next

weekend’s work, calculating how many portraits I’d need to sell to pay

back the medical bills, to build enough of a cushion that I could

finally stop looking over my shoulder. Instead, my hand reached for

my phone on the nightstand, fingers moving with muscle memory I

wished I could erase.

The screen glowed in the darkness. 3:47 AM. I unlocked it and opened

my photo gallery, knowing even as I did it that this was a mistake, that I was picking at a wound that needed to heal. But some part of me–the part that had loved him for three years, the part that had believed in fairy tales and second chances–needed to say goodbye

properly.

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The first photo loaded slowly, as if the phone itself was reluctant to

show me. Three years ago. Fifteen–year–old me standing in front of

Blackwood Estate, the Gothic Revival mansion looming behind us. I

was wearing a thrift–store coat from Goodwill, two sizes too big, my shoulders hunched inward like I was trying to make myself smaller,

disappear into the fabric. My eyes held that deer–in–headlights look,

the expression of someone who knew they’d walked into a trap but

couldn’t see the way out yet.

Julian stood beside me, one hand resting on my shoulder–protective,

or so I’d thought at the time. He was smiling at the camera, that

polite, practiced smile he wore for Mr. Vane Senior’s benefit. I

remembered the weight of his hand, how it had felt like an anchor

and a promise. “You’re safe now,” his touch seemed to say. “You

belong here.”

I’d believed him.

I scrolled down, my chest tightening with each swipe. Photo after

photo of stolen moments–Julian’s profile as he worked in his study,

the lamplight casting shadows under his cheekbones. His hand

wrapped around a coffee cup, fingers long and elegant against the

ceramic. His back as he stood in the garden, phone pressed to his ear,

completely unaware I was watching. Thanksgiving dinner, his

champagne glass raised in a toast, his expression relaxed in a way it

never was around me anymore.

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Every photo was evidence of my pathetic obsession, proof that I’d

spent years documenting a man who barely knew I existed.

The images shifted as I scrolled–me standing closer to him in each

shot, my smiles growing more natural, my posture less defensive.

Christmas morning, me in the cheap sweater Mamá had bought from

Target, Julian’s arm draped casually over my shoulders like I really

was his sister. I’d saved that photo as my phone background for six

months.

Then came the turning point.

The photo was professionally composed, obviously staged. Sloane

stood on the marble steps of Blackwood Estate in a white Max Mara

cashmere coat that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, her

fingers intertwined with Julian’s. Early spring sunlight bathed them in golden light, making them look like figures from a classical oil

painting–the kind of perfect couple that belonged in museums and

glossy magazines, not real life.

I’d been the one holding the camera. Victoria had shoved her phone

at me with a smirk: “You’re decent at this. Take a few shots of them.”

I’d taken thirty–seven photos that day. Deleted all but one.

After that, the gallery thinned out dramatically. The last few images

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were selfies taken here in the garage apartment–me against the

graffiti–covered wall, the rusted metal pipes visible through the

window behind me, the gray Bronx sky pressing down. In those

photos, my face had changed. I was thinner, sharper somehow, the

softness worn away by months of surviving. But my eyes were clearer.

More awake.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred, then backed out of the

gallery and opened my message drafts. The folder I’d hidden from

myself, buried deep in the app where I wouldn’t have to see it every

time I opened my phone.

Dozens of messages. All unsent. All addressed to Julian.

“Julian, I miss you. When are you coming home?” -Three years ago,

deleted before I could hit send.

“I saw you on Bloomberg today. You looked tired. Are you eating

well?” -Two years ago, typed at 2 AM and deleted by dawn.

“I painted something for you. Can I show you?” -Last year, written

after finishing a piece I’d been certain would make him see me

differently. Deleted,

“Why do you always choose her?” -One month ago, written after he’d

left because Sloane needed him. Deleted within minutes.

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Chapter 139

Each message was a monument to my own weakness, evidence of

every night I’d broken down and reached for him, only to delete the

words before sunrise. I’d never sent any of them.

Because even in my most desperate moments, I’d known the truth-

these messages were too honest, too raw, too much. I wasn’t his

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