Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Elara

The private jet’s leather seats smelled like Julian’s cologne and old

money. I chose the window seat farthest from him, my SAT prep book

pressed against my chest like a shield.

Below us, Blackwood Estate shrank into October mist. Gothic

windows, wrought–iron gates, all of it disappearing behind clouds.

Good riddance.

Julian sat across the aisle, MacBook open, fingers moving across the keyboard in sharp bursts. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. But I felt

his attention like a hand on the back of my neck.

I opened my book. “Critical Reading: Passage Analysis.” Read the

same sentence three times. Four. The words wouldn’t stick.

“You’re turning pages,” Julian said without looking up, “but you’re not

reading them.”

My hand froze mid–turn. “I’m reading.”

“No.” He closed his laptop. “You’re performing.”

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The plane hit turbulence. My stomach dropped. I grabbed the

armrest, knuckles going white.

His gaze moved from my face to my hands. “Afraid of flying?”

“No.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

You. Boston. That hotel room. Everything that comes after.

I turned another page. “Statistics problems.”

Something flickered in his eyes–amusement, maybe. “Liar.”

The engine hummed. Outside, clouds passed like smoke. I kept my

eyes on the book until the words blurred together.

Ninety minutes felt like crossing an ocean.

The Ritz–Carlton Boston lobby was all marble and crystal. I stood

near a column, handbag pressed to my ribs, while Julian checked us

1. in.

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The elevator chimed.

I looked up.

Sloane Kennedy stepped out in cream Chanel, blonde hair swept back,

pearls glowing at her throat. She moved like water–smooth,

inevitable, filling every space.

“Julian!” Her voice carried across the lobby. Warm. Delighted.

Then her eyes found me.

The smile froze. Just for a second. Then it warmed again, bright and

sharp as a knife. “Elara? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The emphasis on you was light as a razor cut.

My throat tightened. “Miss Kennedy.”

She crossed to us, heels clicking on marble. Up close, her perfume was

overwhelming–Chanel No. 5, the real thing, not the knockoff Mamá

sometimes wore. “Are you joining us for the dinner?” Polite curiosity.

“I thought you were busy with college applications.”

Translation: Why are you here? This is my territory. You don’t belong.

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Before I could answer, Julian spoke. “Grandfather insisted she come. Educational purposes.”

Neutral tone. But it shifted everything. I hadn’t chosen this. I’d been

ordered.

Sloane’s smile sharpened. “How thoughtful of Mr. Vane Senior. She

Ex turned back to me. “Kennedy gatherings can be overwhelming. So

many important people, such high standards.” A delicate pause. “Do

try not to embarrass Julian tonight.”

I nodded. Couldn’t trust my voice.

She touched Julian’s arm–casual, proprietary–and they moved

toward the elevators, discussing arrival times and seating charts. I

stood by the column and counted my heartbeats.

One. Two. Three.

Breathe.

My hotel room was standard luxury. King bed, view of the Public

Garden, minibar full of champagne I wouldn’t touch. I locked the door

and dropped my bag on the desk.

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Chapter 19

My hands shook as I emptied it. Small bottle of ipecac syrup. Digital recorder. Folded paper with a phone number written in my careful

script.

I sat on the bed edge and dialed.

“Boston General Hospital emergency services.”

“I need a doctor.” My voice cracked. I swallowed hard. “Tonight. Ritz-

Carlton.”

“Ma’am, if this is a medical emergency-”

“It’s preventive.” The word tasted like copper. “I may need help. Later. A female doctor, if possible.”

Silence on the other end. Long enough that I thought she’d hung up.

“I’ll transfer you to private medical services.”

Twenty minutes later, it was arranged. Dr. Sarah Smith. On call from 11 PM. Fifteen–minute response time. The fee made my eyes water. I paid it with my emergency credit card–the one I’d hidden and never told anyone about.

I hung up and stared at my reflection in the dark TV screen. Pale face.

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Hollow eyes. Hands folded tight to stop the shaking.

My phone buzzed. Julian: “Dinner at 7. Dress appropriately.”

I typed: “Understood.”

Deleted it.

Tried: “Yes.”

Deleted that too.

Finally: “OK.”

Sent.

I set the phone down and picked up the ipecac bottle. Turned it over

in my hands. The liquid inside was thick, dark amber. Looked

harmless.

Please let this be enough.

Kennedy Manor rose on Beacon Hill like a red–brick fortress. Cars

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lined the circular drive–Mercedes, Bentleys, one lonely Tesla. I

climbed out in my navy dress and felt every eye in the entrance hall

assess and dismiss me in seconds.

Inside, the ballroom glittered under crystal chandeliers. Parquet

floors gleamed. Men in Tom Ford tuxedos discussed market positions.

Women in couture smiled with too many teeth.

I found a spot near a Venetian mirror. Counted exits. Two doors to the terrace. One to the kitchen. Main entrance behind me. Old habits.

“Elara.”

I turned. Sloane approached with two champagne flutes, her smile warm and empty as summer sky before a storm.

“You must try this.” She held out one glass. The champagne was pale

gold, bubbles rising. “1996 Dom Pérignon. Very rare.”

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