Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 18

Because tomorrow I’d get in his car. Tomorrow I’d go to Boston.

Tomorrow I’d walk straight back into the nightmare I’d spent three

years trying to escape.

And this time, I knew exactly what was waiting for me.

The knock came at 6:00 AM.

I was already awake, already dressed in the navy sheath dress Mamá

had picked out. Professional. Modest. The kind of thing a proper

young lady wore to a business dinner.

Mamá burst through the door, her face alight with that awful mixture

of hope and calculation I remembered too well.

“Mr. Vane just told me! You’re going to Boston! Oh, gracias a Dios, I

knew you’d come to your senses-”

“I’m going because I was ordered to,” I interrupted, keeping my voice

flat. “Not because I want to.”

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She waved this away, already pulling clothes from my closet, rejecting

this blouse, approving that cardigan. “It doesn’t matter why! What

matters is you’ll be there, with him, away from that… that perra—”

“Don’t.” I caught her wrist. “Don’t do this again.”

But she wasn’t listening, was already spinning fantasies: Julian would

see me in a new light, away from the family, away from Sloane’s

interference. The Kennedy dinner would be my chance to shine, to

prove myself, to finally–finally–make him see me as more than the

housekeeper’s daughter.

I let her talk. There was no point arguing. She needed this fantasy the

way an addict needs a fix, and I’d learned long ago that you can’t save

someone who’s drowning if they keep pulling you under.

“Mamá.” I waited until she looked at me. “If something happens in

Boston-”

“Nothing will happen! You’ll be wonderful, you’ll—”

“If something happens,” I continued, my voice hard, “don’t believe

what they tell you. Don’t believe Julian. Don’t believe the Vanes. And

don’t…” My throat tightened. “Don’t let them send me away.”

Her face crumpled. “Why would you say that? Why would—”

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“Just promise me.”

But she couldn’t. I could see it in her eyes–the same weakness that

had always been there, the same desperate need to believe that if we

just tried hard enough, sacrificed enough, debased ourselves enough,

they might finally accept us.

She pulled me into a hug instead, and I let her, even though I felt

nothing. Even though I knew that when the moment came–when

Julian accused me of whatever he planned to accuse me of–she

wouldn’t fight for me.

She never had before.

The black Mercedes waited in the circular drive.

Julian stood beside it in a charcoal suit, phone to his ear, conducting

business with the casual authority of someone who’d never doubted

his right to command. He didn’t look at me as I approached, just

gestured toward the car with one hand while closing a deal worth

more than my entire existence with the other.

I climbed into the back seat. He followed a moment later, maintaining

the maximum possible distance between us.

The driver pulled away from Blackwood Estate, and I watched it

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disappear in the side mirror–all those Gothic windows, all those

rooms full of people who would never love me, shrinking into the

October fog.

“Ground rules,” Julian said, not looking up from his phone. “At the

dinner, you speak when spoken to. You don’t mention our…

relationship. You certainly don’t mention any of your previous

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