Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 159

Chapter 159

Elara

I closed the door before she could finish, leaned against it, and let out

a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. The room looked exactly like

I’d left it yesterday morning: unmade bed, art supplies scattered

across the desk, the small window offering its unimpressive view of

the building across the alley. My life. My real life, the one that had

nothing to do with Julian Vane and his complicated emotions and his

ability to make me forget every promise I’d made to myself.

I changed into jeans and a paint–stained t–shirt, threw my hair into a

messy bun, and started gathering paintings. Six small landscapes I’d

done over the past few weeks–safe, pretty things that might actually

sell. And one portrait I couldn’t quite bring myself to leave behind,

even though it was too raw, too personal. A girl with her face half in shadow, her expression caught between defiance and despair.

I’d painted myself, basically. And I was bringing it to sell to strangers.

Raven was already at our spot when I arrived, her purple hair bright against the gray of the overcast sky. She’d set up the folding table we’d borrowed from Diego, arranged her laptop and some of her digital art prints in a way that looked both professional and

deliberately chaotic. Very Raven.

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“There’s my genius!” she called out when she spotted me, waving with

enough enthusiasm to draw looks from nearby vendors. “Get over

here and let me bask in your reflected glory!”

I couldn’t help but smile as I set down my portfolio case. “It’s just a

nomination, Raven. I haven’t won anything yet.”

“Just a nomination? Elara, do you have any idea how many people

apply for that thing? And you got in! You’re going to be competing

against artists from all over the world, and you’re going to kick their

asses!” She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me slightly. “This is huge.

This is everything. Why aren’t you more excited?”

Because I’d paid for it by sleeping with Julian. Because it felt tainted

somehow, like I’d traded pieces of myself I couldn’t get back. Because I didn’t know if I’d gotten it on merit or because he felt guilty about-

about everything.

“I’m excited,” I said instead. “I’m just tired. Didn’t sleep much.”

Raven’s eyes narrowed, her bullshit detector pinging. “Where were

you last night? You never said.”

“Just… out. Dealing with stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

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Chapter 159

“The kind I don’t want to talk about at a flea market.” I started

unpacking my paintings, arranging them on the table with more care

than they probably needed. “Can we just focus on this? On making

some money so we can repay Anya’s medical bills?”

Raven watched me for a long moment, clearly debating whether to

push. Finally, she sighed and nodded. “Okay. But we’re talking about

this later. Whatever’s going on-”

“Later,” I agreed, knowing I had no intention of keeping that promise.

We settled into the rhythm of the market: arranging and rearranging displays, calling out to passersby, watching other vendors make sales while we sat with our inventory untouched. It was early still, and the serious buyers hadn’t emerged yet. Just browsers, people killing time

on a Sunday afternoon.

I tried to focus on that–on the simple act of being here, trying to sell my work, trying to be independent. But my mind kept drifting back to Julian’s penthouse. To the way he’d looked at me this morning before his phone rang, something unreadable in his expression. To the message Atlas had sent, so professional and impersonal, as if last

night hadn’t happened at all.

“You’re mine. I’m keeping you.”

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Chapter 159

But was I? Or was I just convenient? Just available? Just desperate

enough to say yes when he called?

I was so lost in that toxic spiral that I almost didn’t notice the woman

approaching our table. Almost.

She materialized out of the crowd like something from a fashion

magazine–Burberry trench coat, Hermès bag, diamond studs that

caught what little sunlight filtered through the clouds. Everything

about her screamed Upper East Side, from her ash–blonde French

twist to her perfectly manicured nails. She looked at my paintings the

way you’d look at something mildly distasteful you’d found on your

shoe.

“These are rather ordinary, aren’t they?” Her voice had that particular edge that came from a lifetime of looking down at people. “Do you do

portraits?”

And just like that, I was back at Blackwood. Back to being the help’s daughter, the charity case, the girl who was supposed to be grateful

for any attention from her betters.

“Yes, ma’am,” I heard myself say, the deference automatic and hateful.

“I can do portrait work.”

“Paint me.” Not a request. A command. She settled into Raven’s chair

Chapter 159

like she owned it, arranging herself into what she probably thought

was an elegant pose. “A detailed sketch. How long?”

I did the math quickly. “About an hour, depending on detail level-

“An hour. And you charge?”

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