Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 152

Chapter 152

Elara

Marcus was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly against

the table. Then he smiled. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.

There’s a business dinner I need to attend–very high–end, very

exclusive. Some important people will be there, including Julian

Vane. I think it would be interesting to have you there as my date.”

My stomach dropped. “Your date?”

“My girlfriend, to be specific,” Marcus said. “Just for one evening. You

play the part, help me make Julian a little uncomfortable–he’s been insufferably smug lately–and in exchange, I’ll seriously consider giving you the Hartley Capital competition slot.” He leaned back in

his chair. “Fair trade, don’t you think?”

Nothing about this was fair. But I wasn’t in a position to argue.

“Just dinner?” I asked carefully. “Nothing else?”

“Just dinner,” Marcus confirmed. “I’m not asking you to sleep with me,

Elara. I just want you to show up, look pretty, and act like you’re into

me for a few hours. That’s all.”

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I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or if

this was just the beginning of something worse. “And if I do this,

you’ll give me the slot?”

“I’ll seriously consider it,” Marcus said. “If you play your part well

enough, if you make it convincing, then yes. I’ll give you the slot.”

The qualifier made my stomach twist. He wasn’t promising anything,

just dangling the possibility in front of me like bait. But what choice

did I have? The Praxis Award was my best shot at building a career

independent of the Vane family, at proving I was more than just the

housekeeper’s daughter who’d gotten above her station.

“One dinner,” I said. “And then you decide about the slot.”

“One dinner,” Marcus agreed, way too easily.

I should have walked away. Should have told him to keep his slot and

his games and found some other way forward. But I was so tired of

fighting, so tired of being powerless, so tired of watching

opportunities disappear because I didn’t have the right connections

or enough money.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “I’ll do it.”

Marcus’s smile was triumphant. “Excellent. I’ll send a car for you

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tomorrow at seven. Wear something nice–this is Per Se, one of the

best restaurants in the city. Dress code is formal.” He stood up,

pulling out his wallet and dropping several hundred–dollar bills on

the table without counting them. “It’s been a pleasure doing business

with you, Elara.”

He walked away before I could respond, leaving me alone at the table

with an empty wine glass and the growing certainty that I’d just made

a terrible mistake.

I sat there for another few minutes, trying to convince myself this

was worth it. That one uncomfortable dinner was a reasonable price for the chance at the opportunity I needed. But Raven’s warning kept

echoing in my head: “These finance guys don’t do favors for free.”

I pulled out my phone to text her, then stopped. What would I even say? That I might get the slot but only by agreeing to pretend to be Marcus’s girlfriend? That I’d traded one form of control for another?

Instead I typed: “Talked to Marcus. Might have a shot at the slot. Will

explain later.”

Her response came almost immediately: “Really?? That’s great! What

did you have to do?”

I stared at her question for a long moment, then put my phone away

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without answering.

The next evening, I stood in our tiny bathroom, trying to make myself

look like someone who belonged at Marcus Hartley’s side. The black dress again–I literally had nothing else–but I’d borrowed a scarf

from Raven to make it look different. I’d spent an hour on my hair

and makeup, had practiced smiling in the mirror until it looked

natural instead of terrified.

“You look great,” Raven said from the doorway, but there was worry in

her voice.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Just–be careful tonight, okay? I know you need this

opportunity, but if Marcus tries anything, if it feels wrong-”

“I’ll be fine,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest because I was

already too aware of how badly this could go. “It’s just dinner. A few

hours of pretending, and then it’s done.”

“Text me every hour,” Raven insisted. “Just so I know you’re okay.”

I promised, even though we both knew that if something went wrong,

a text message wasn’t going to help.

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At seven PM, my phone buzzed: “Car is outside.”

I grabbed the clutch Raven had lent me–containing only my phone, ID, and emergency cash–and headed downstairs. A black Mercedes was idling at the curb, and the driver opened the door without saying

anything. I slid into the back seat and tried to steady my breathing as

we pulled into traffic.

Per Se was in the Time Warner Center, on the fourth floor with views overlooking Central Park. The restaurant was all clean lines and soft lighting, the kind of place where every detail was perfect and every table cost more than I made in a month. A hostess greeted us at the entrance, checking Marcus’s name against some kind of list before leading us through the main dining room.

Marcus was waiting near the bar, wearing a navy suit that made him look like he’d stepped out of a magazine. He smiled when he saw me,

and for a moment it almost looked genuine.

“You look beautiful,” he said, offering his arm.

“Thank you,” I managed.

He led me through the restaurant, past tables full of wealthy–looking people having quiet conversations over wine and elaborate dishes. We walked to a private dining room in the back, and as we got closer I

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could hear voices–more than two people.

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