Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 16

Chapter 16

He leaned in. I could see my reflection in his eyes–small, cornered,

trapped.

“I know you’re lying.”

The air between us felt thick, suffocating. My throat was so tight I could barely breathe.

“Those are old,” I managed. “From before.”

“The paper is crisp.” His thumb traced the edge of a page, not touching me but somehow making me feel touched anyway. “The ink hasn’t faded. And this-” He pulled out a loose sheet from deeper in the notebook. My heart stopped.

That was something worse than a signature, a sketch I drew a few months ago. In the chaos of returning to this body and trying to fix everything, I completely forgot about its existence. The detail was obsessive: every line, every shadow, the way his fingers curved around ceramic. At the bottom, in my handwriting: “Strong hands. Safe hands. Hands that could hold me and make everything okay.”

I wanted to die. Again.

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Chapter 16

“Tell me,

Elara.” He set the paper on the nightstand with deliberate

care. “Is this what ‘moving on‘ looks like? Because from where I’m

sitting, it looks like you’re playing a deeper game.”

“I’m not-‘

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to my lips. Not gentle. “Don’t insult my

intelligence.”

My body remembered this touch. Not from this timeline–from the

other one, the Glass House, when he’d silence me this way before…

before…

I jerked back so hard my head cracked against the headboard.

Julian’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes.

Satisfaction? Curiosity?

“You pull away from me at breakfast,” he said, removing his hand.

“You refuse to go to Boston. You stop all your little… services. You

make speeches about boundaries and self–respect.” His voice

hardened. “But your notebook tells a different story. So which is it,

Elara? Are you actually done? Or are you just getting better at

manipulation?”

I should have burned them. I should have destroyed every piece of

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evidence that the old Elara ever existed.

But I hadn’t. And now I was paying for it.

“They’re old,” I repeated, hating how my voice shook. “I was going to

throw them away. I just… I forgot.”

“You forgot.” He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle that

had suddenly become more interesting. “The same way you ‘forgot‘ to

bring me coffee? The same way you ‘forgot‘ that you’ve spent a year

memorizing my schedule?”

He stood abruptly, towering over me, and I hated that I flinched.

“Here’s what I think happened,” he said, pacing now, his shadow

cutting across the lamp’s glow. “You realized the direct approach

wasn’t working. All your little attempts to get my attention–the

coffee, the drawings, the pathetic hovering–they only made me avoid

you more. So you decided to try the opposite. Pull away. Make

yourself unavailable. Classic strategy.”

He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, every inch the

Wall Street predator his reputation claimed.

“You think if you withdraw, I’ll chase you. That’s the game, isn’t it?

Play hard to get. Make me wonder. Make me… curious.”

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