Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 148

Chapter 148

Julian waited until I’d slid into the seat across from him before

speaking. On the table between us sat an untouched cappuccino and a

plate of pastries–clearly ordered in advance, clearly meant for me.

“Congratulations on your exam results,” he said.

I didn’t touch the coffee. “Is that what you waited an hour to tell me?”

“I heard you deleted my contact information. And blocked my

number.”

“Yes.”

His fingers drummed once against the table, the only visible sign of

agitation. “Why?”

I met his eyes directly. “Because we don’t need to be in contact.”

“I disagree.”

“That’s not my problem.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel solid. Julian

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leaned back slightly, studying me with an intensity that made me

want to look away, but I forced myself to hold his gaze.

“Give me your phone,” he said finally.

“Why?”

“Unblock me.”

I almost laughed. “I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

“Elara-”

“We’re not family,” I interrupted, the words coming out harder than

I’d intended. “I moved out of Blackwood. I’m supporting myself.

There’s no reason for us to communicate.”

He exhaled sharply, and for a moment I thought he might actually lose his temper. Instead, he seemed to force himself back under control, his voice dropping to something quieter but no less intense.

“If you unblock my number, I’ll agree to one condition of your

choosing.”

I blinked, genuinely surprised. Julian didn’t negotiate. Julian

commanded, expected obedience, and punished resistance. The fact that he was offering to compromise meant something had shifted,

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though I couldn’t quite identify what.

My eyes drifted to the window. The café overlooked the main campus

plaza, where a massive LED screen displayed rotating announcements

and advertisements. As I watched, the screen switched to a

promotional video for an art competition:

“PRAXIS INTERNATIONAL YOUNG ARTISTS AWARD”

“GRAND PRIZE: SOLO EXHIBITION AT SAATCHI GALLERY + $50,000

SCHOLARSHIP”

My heart stuttered. The Praxis Award. I’d wanted to enter it in my

previous life.

“I want to enter the Praxis International Young Artists Award,” I

heard myself say.

Julian’s brow furrowed. “The registration deadline passed last week.”

“I know. But Vane Group is one of the major sponsors. You donate

half a million annually. One phone call from you to the organizers, and I’d have a special entry slot.”

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then:

“Why do you want to enter?”

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The question caught me off guard. I’d expected resistance, not

curiosity.

“Because I want to,” I said carefully. “I don’t need a reason beyond

that.”

Something shifted in his eyes–a flash of certainty that made my

stomach drop even before he spoke.

“Sloane is entering.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Of course she was. Of course

Julian would know her plans, would probably be helping her prepare

her submission, would be there at the award ceremony if she won.

And he thought-

Oh God. He thought I was copying her. Trying to compete with her.

Trying to prove I could be just as good as his perfect, pregnant

fiancée.

“So

you

think I’m trying to imitate Sloane,” I said flatly.

Julian didn’t deny it. His expression had settled into something

maddeningly patient, as if he were dealing with a child who needed

gentle correction. “Elara, you don’t need to do this. You have your

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own path.”

The condescension in his voice made me want to throw the

cappuccino in his face. He’d reduced my entire ambition, my talent,

my desperate need to reclaim what had been stolen from me, to

pathetic jealousy of his fiancée.

I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor. “You want to know

what’s really pathetic? You can never see the real me. To you, I’m

either ‘the poor orphan who needs taking care of‘ or ‘the crazy girl

who’s jealous of Sloane.‘ But you’ve never once considered that maybe

-just maybe I want to be myself. Not your project. Not your burden.

Not your anything.”

Julian stood as well, his jaw tight. “Elara, you’re not being rational-‘

“Forget it.” I grabbed my bag. “I won’t ask you for help. Goodbye, Mr.

Vane.”

“Elara-”

“And about the blocking thing?” I turned back at the door, my voice

cold. “You can stay right where you are. In my blocked contacts.