Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 141

Chapter 141

Julian

“That’s not–I would never-

“1

“Don’t.” The word came out sharp enough to cut. “I’m not stupid,

Victoria. I know exactly what you two were doing. What I want to

know is why you thought it was a good idea to waste my time with

manufactured emergencies when you should be focused on not

becoming a family embarrassment.”

Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes, but these looked genuine–tears of

shame and fear rather than manipulation. “I was just trying to help

Sloane. She’s worried about Elara. We all are. That girl is-”

“That girl,” I interrupted, my voice dropping to something dangerous,

“is none of your concern. Your concern is passing your classes and not

making our family look like a joke. If you fail your midterms, if

Harvard rejects you, you won’t be able to blame Elara or anyone else.

It’ll be on you,”

I set my glass down with enough force to make Victoria flinch. “Now

get out. Go study. And tell Sloane that the next time she needs

something, she should tell me the truth instead of performing for an

audience.”

Chapter 141

Victoria fled.

I stood alone in my office, my reflection staring back at me from the

darkened window. Outside, rain lashed against the glass, distorting

the lights of the estate grounds into abstract blurs. I looked like a

stranger to myself–jaw tight, eyes hard, shoulders rigid with tension

I couldn’t release.

I’d left Elara on a street corner for this. For Sloane’s performance and

Victoria’s games.

My phone buzzed. Atlas, with a folder of social media posts about

Elara’s street art booth. I opened it with a sense of dread, expecting

more ammunition for why I’d been right to pull her away from

Brooklyn Flea.

Instead, I found dozens of posts from satisfied customers, amateur

photographers, art students. Photos of Elara bent over her sketchpad,

completely absorbed in her work, her face more peaceful than I’d seen

it in months. Videos of children’s faces lighting up when they saw

their portraits. Comments praising her talent, her patience, her

kindness.

One post in particular made me stop scrolling. It was a black–and-

white photograph, artistically composed–Elara sitting in the rain

under a torn plastic tarp, water dripping from her hair onto her

shoulders, her hand moving across the paper with focused intensity.

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The caption read: “Brooklyn Flea. October rain. A young artist at

work. #StreetPhotography #Brooklyn #ArtistLife”

She looked free.

That was the word that came to me, unbidden and unwelcome. Free in

a way she never looked at Blackwood Estate, never looked in my

presence, never looked when she was trying to be what everyone

expected her to be. She looked like herself–raw and real and wholly

present in the moment.

I saved the photo to my camera roll before I could think better of it.

Then I saved three more. Then all of them.

I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes against the headache building behind my temples. Today, when I’d gotten the alert about Elara’s social media presence, my first instinct hadn’t been to protect the family reputation. It had been something else entirely- something possessive and irrational that I didn’t want to examine too

closely.

I’d seen those photos of her smiling at strangers, making them happy with her art, and something in my chest had twisted violently. Why did she look like that for them? Why did she give those tourists and art students the soft smiles and gentle attention she used to give me? Why did she look so content in that shabby corner by the bathrooms when she’d always looked miserable at Blackwood?

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The answer was obvious, and I hated it: she was free there. Free of

me, free of the family, free of the weight of expectations and

obligations and the constant reminder that she didn’t belong.

I’d gone to Brooklyn Flea to bring her back. To remind her that she

couldn’t just walk away, that she was still connected to the Vane

family whether she liked it or not. I’d told myself it was about

reputation, about responsibility, about protecting her from herself.

But the truth–the truth I could barely admit even now–was that I’d

been terrified. Terrified of seeing her build a life that didn’t need me,

didn’t include me, didn’t leave any space for me at all.

I opened my eyes and stared at my phone. My message thread with

Elara showed our last exchange from days ago–me sending her the

investigation files about Lucy, her not responding. I started typing

before I could stop myself.

“Did you get home safe?”

Simple. Normal. The kind of thing anyone would ask after dropping

someone off in an unfamiliar area.

I hit send.

The message failed immediately. Red text appeared beneath it:

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“Message failed to send. Not Delivered.”

My blood went cold. I backed out and tried to open Elara’s contact

information.

“You cannot send messages to this contact.”

She’d blocked me.

I tried calling. “The number you have dialed is not available.”

She’d blocked my number entirely.

I stared at my phone screen, my pulse pounding in my ears. Elara had

never–in three years of living under the same roof, in all the fights

and misunderstandings and moments of tension–she had never cut

me off completely. She’d always been there, waiting, hoping, reaching out even when I pushed her away.

But now she was gone.

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