Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 173

I didn’t have an answer. All I knew was that I was tired–tired of

fighting, tired of pretending, tired of being strong when all I wanted

to do was break down and scream at the unfairness of it all.

The car pulled up in front of my building in the Bronx, and I paid the

driver with the last of my cash. I climbed the stairs to my apartment

slowly, every step feeling like it took more energy than I had to give.

When I finally reached my door, I leaned my forehead against the

cold wood and just breathed.

Tonight, I was done. I just wanted to sleep and forget, even if only for

a few hours, that I’d ever been foolish enough to love Julian Vane.

The week after the engagement party passed in a blur of controlled

chaos. I’d locked myself in my ten–square–meter room in the Bronx whenever I didn’t have classes, training like an athlete preparing for the Olympics. Four to six hours a day of timed creation exercises–set the timer, pick a theme, complete a piece in three hours or less. Figurative to abstract. Landscape to portrait. Bright to somber. My sketchbook overflowed with composition drafts.

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The Praxis Prize wasn’t just another competition. It was the

competition–the most influential emerging artist award in New

York’s art world. For someone like me, desperate to escape the Vane

family’s shadow and build a life on my own terms, this was the

opportunity I couldn’t afford to miss.

Even if it had come from Julian’s nomination in the first place.

I tried not to think about that. Tried not to remember the way his

voice had sounded when he’d told me he’d secured me a spot, or the

way my body had responded when he’d kissed me that night at Per Se.

The memory made my stomach twist with a complicated mix of

shame and longing that I ruthlessly shoved down every time it

surfaced.

The night before the competition, I barely slept. I spent the hours

checking and rechecking my supply kit: Windsor & Newton

professional–grade paint tubes in twelve colors–titanium white,

cadmium yellow, deep red, ultramarine, emerald green, burnt umber.

Six Kolinsky sable brushes ranging from size 2 to 12. Palette knives,

Turpentine. Linseed oil. My portable palette. Rags. Everything I’d

bought piece by piece with money from selling sketches at the flea market, because I’d given every dollar from the Vanes to my mother for rent and daily necessities.

At five a.m. on competition day, I jolted awake before my alarm. I took a shower to sharpen my focus, dressed in my cleanest black

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long–sleeve shirt and jeans, pulled on my jacket, and did one final

check of my supply kit before shouldering it. The weight felt

reassuring, solid. Real.

Mamá was already in the kitchen when I emerged, setting out simple

breakfast–bread and coffee. When she saw my face, pale with

exhaustion but set with determination, she opened her mouth as if to

say something, then seemed to think better of it. “Be careful,” she

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