Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 167

hapter 167

Elara

I stopped mid–stride in the corridor, my hand frozen on the cold

–

stone wall. The noise of the engagement party comes from the other

side of the arch – the clanging of champagne glasses, polite laughter,

and the occasional melody of classical music. After meeting Julian, I’d

been heading toward the side exit, planning to slip away into the

night like I’d never been here at all.

But then I thought of Victoria. Of that woman in the Burberry trench

coat, the three hours she’d wasted at my stall, the deliberate cruelty

of it all. The fifty–dollar bill she’d thrown at me like I was begging for

scraps. And Victoria was probably in that ballroom right now, sipping

champagne and laughing about it with her friends, secure in the

knowledge that she could torment me without consequence.

My fingers curled into fists. The rational part of my brain screamed at

me to leave, to get as far away from Blackwood Estate and the Vane

family as possible. But something harder, something forged in the

furnace of too many humiliations, refused to back down. If I left now,

I’d never have another chance to walk into this world and demand

answers. I’d always be the girl who ran away, who accepted whatever abuse they threw at her because she was too weak, too grateful, too

afraid to fight back.

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I pulled out my phone, opening the camera app and starting a video

recording. One of the survival skills I’d learned in the Blackwood:

always have evidence. Always protect yourself. I slipped the phone

into my jacket pocket, angling it so the camera lens was

unobstructed, and turned back toward the main house.

My hands were shaking, but my steps were steady. I wasn’t running

anymore.

I walked into a side hallway that opened onto the ballroom’s

periphery. The party was in full swing now–women in designer

gowns and men in tailored tuxedos clustered in small groups, their

conversations a low hum of wealth and privilege. I stayed in the

shadows near a marble column, scanning the crowd for Victoria’s

distinctive profile.

And then I saw her. She was standing near the dessert table with

Charlotte, the two of them laughing at something on Charlotte’s

phone.

I took a breath and stepped out of the shadows, walking toward her

with my chin up and my shoulders back, I wasn’t the scared girl who

used to hide in corners anymore. I was someone who’d survived worse

than Victoria Vane could ever imagine.

Victoria saw me first. Her eyes widened in shock, her champagne flute

pausing halfway to her lips. “Oh my God,” she said, loud enough that

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Chapter 167

Charlotte and the two other girls in their circle turned to look. “What

are you doing here?”

Charlotte’s perfectly glossed lips curved into a smirk. “Yeah, I thought

security would’ve stopped… certain people from getting in.”

The other girls giggled, their eyes sliding over my thrift–store clothes

with barely concealed disdain. I felt the old shame trying to claw its

way up my throat, but I forced it down. I wasn’t here to play their

games. I was here for answers.

“It was you at the flea market, wasn’t it?” I said, my voice flat and

direct. “You sent that woman in the Burberry coat to mess with me.”

Victoria’s smile flickered for just a second–a tiny crack in her perfect

facade–but then it was back, wider and more condescending than

before. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Charlotte’s poorly suppressed giggle gave her away. I looked from

Victoria to Charlotte and back again, seeing the truth written all over

their faces. They thought this was funny. They thought I was so far

beneath them that they could toy with me like a cat with a mouse,

and I’d never have the courage to confront them.

“Yes, you do,” I said, my voice hardening. “You paid someone to waste

my time, to humiliate me, and then to throw money at me like I was

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begging on the street. Why? What did I ever do to you?”

For a moment, Victoria looked almost surprised that I’d pushed back.

Then her expression shifted into something colder, more calculating.

She set down her champagne flute and stepped closer, her voice

dropping to a silky, dangerous tone that only the people in our

immediate circle could hear.

“You really want to know?” she said, tilting her head. “Fine. I did it. I

sent Sarah to your pathetic little art stall because I was sick of seeing

you out there, embarrassing this family. You’re supposed to be

grateful for everything we’ve given you, but instead you’re out there

selling sketches like some street artist, making the Vane name look

cheap.”

Charlotte leaned in, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “And

Victoria was being generous, honestly. Three hours of Sarah’s time

and then fifty bucks? That’s more than your art is worth.”

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