Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 199

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second Chance

Chapter 199

Elara

The evening after the press conference, I stood in my cramped garage–studio, staring at the half–finished canvas practiced for the semifinals, when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. The screen lit up with an electronic invitation–a pool party hosted by Sloane Kennedy to celebrate her first–place win in the preliminaries, at some private beachfront estate, eight o’clock tonight, all Praxis Prize finalists invited.

My first instinct was to decline. I typed out a polite refusal-“Sorry, I have other commitments–and hit send before I could second–guess myself.

The response came within minutes, not as a text but as a voice message.

Sloane’s honey–smooth voice filled my ear: “Elara, darling, everyone will be there. If you don’t come, social media might start saying you’re ‘antisocial,” ‘standoffish,‘ ‘think you’re too good for other artists… you know how the internet loves to label people. As the second–place winner, you should really network with everyone, don’t you think?”

The threat beneath the sweetness was unmistakable.

I sat on the edge of my makeshift bed, phone trembling in my hand. Another trap. But refusing would give them ammunition for a fresh wave of harassment. The memory of yesterday’s confrontation outside school, the cameras and accusations, was still raw. With a resigned exhale, I texted back my acceptance.

By seven–thirty, I was standing outside a mansion by the sea. Through floor–to–ceiling windows, I could see the party in full swing–women in barely–there

bikinis and sheer cover–ups, men shirtless or in designer swim trunks, everyone holding champagne flutes or cocktails. A DJ booth pulsed with electronic

music loud enough to rattle my chest from outside. The wealth on display was staggering: Gucci swimwear, Prada sandals, diamonds glinting at throats and

wrists.

I looked down at my own outfit–plain denim cutoffs and a white t–shirt from a thrift store, the only “casual wear” I owned that seemed remotely

appropriate.

The contrast was humiliating.

Why did I come here? I thought, my throat tightening. These people can tell at a glance I don’t belong in their world. But if I leave now, tomorrow’s headlines will

read Elara Vance Snubs Victory Celebration, Displays Arrogance.’

Forcing myself to breathe, I pushed open the glass door. Immediately I was engulfed by humid air thick with chlorine, alcohol, and expensive perfume, the

music so deafening it felt like a physical assault. Several bikini–clad girls turned to stare, their gazes traveling from my hair to my shoes with undisguised

contempt before they exchanged smirks. I felt my skin prickle with the weight of their judgment, every step toward the crowd an exercise in maintaining

composure while my instincts screamed at me to flee.

I tried to find a quiet corner to wait out the evening, but discovered that everyone was watching me, Some held up phones, filming or photographing

without bothering to hide it. Others whispered to their companions, heads bent together in gossip.

Behind me, I caught fragments of conversation from two young women in La Perla bikinis: “That’s her? The second place?

‘I heard she got in through Julian’s connections…”

“Look at what she’s wearing–she didn’t even bring a swimsuit. Can’t swim or can’t afford one?”

A shirtless man wearing a Rolex sauntered past, whiskey in hand, and looked me up and down before whistling. “Hey, sweetheart, want to get in the water? !

could teach‘ you.” His tone dripped with sexual innuendo.

1/3

:05 pm

Chapter 199

M

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

0

I retreated to a lounge chair at the pool’s edge, tried to make myself invisible, my fingers clutching my phone like a lifeline, ready to call for an escape the moment things became unbearable.

Above the pool, a massive LED screen cycled through images of Sloane’s winning artwork, accompanied by text: “Congratulations to our champion, Sloane Kennedy!” In the corner, barely visible for a few seconds at a time, appeared a smaller caption: “Runner–up: Elara Vance.”

The visual hierarchy was a deliberate cruelty, a public reminder of who mattered and who was merely tolerated.

Suddenly, the music cut out and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. I looked up to see Sloane descending a spiral staircase from the second floor,

moving with the practiced grace of a Hollywood starlet. She wore a white Zimmermann one–piece swimsuit that clung to her curves, the sheer robe over it

doing nothing to hide her slightly rounded belly–her pregnancy on elegant display. A Van Cleef & Arpels four–leaf clover necklace rested at her throat, catching the light with every step.

Her smile was flawless, radiant, the image of effortless perfection.

The crowd parted for her like subjects before a queen. People surged forward with congratulations=“Sloane!” “You’re incredible!” “Amazing work!“–and

someone popped a champagne bottle, spraying foam and confetti into the air. When she reached the pool’s edge, Sloane raised her glass in a toast. “Thank

you all for coming to celebrate. Tonight, let’s enjoy art, enjoy life, and enjoy each other’s company!”

The crowd roared approval. The DJ restarted the music at an even higher volume. The party reached a fever pitch of manufactured joy.

I stood at the periphery of it all, feeling like Cinderella who’d stumbled into a palace ball in rags. The sense of not belonging was so acute it made my chest ache. I was just beginning to edge toward the exit when I felt a presence at my shoulder.

Sloane had materialized beside me, holding two drinks–one looked like sparkling water for herself, the other a pink cocktail that she extended toward me.

Her smile was warm, her voice honeyed. “Elara, darling, this is a celebration. You should relax and enjoy yourself, shouldn’t you? Here, have a drink. Don’t be

so tense.

Around us, people murmured approval: “Sloane is so thoughtful,” “She’s so gracious even to her competitors,” “That’s true class.”

I took the glass because refusing would have looked churlish, managing a stiff “Thank you.”

But Sloane wasn’t finished. She clapped her hands to get the crowd’s attention, her voice rising above the music. “Everyone, listen! Tonight isn’t just about

celebrating my first place–we should also congratulate our second–place winner, Elara!”

Every eye in the room swiveled to me.

Heat flooded my face.

I wanted to sink through the floor.

Sloane continued, her tone dripping with false sweetness, “Elara came all by herself tonight, no date, no companion. As the hostess, how could I let her feel

lonely?”

She snapped her fingers.

Two young men–muscular, shirtless, wearing tight swim trunks–immediately appeared at my sides.

The crowd erupted in whistles, catcalls, and laughter.

2/3

3:05 pm P PM M

Chapter 199

My stomach turned over.

“Make sure you ‘take care of our runner–up,” Sloane said to the men, emphasizing the words in a way that made them sound obscene. “Don’t let her feel left

out.”

One of them, blond and grinning, draped an arm over my shoulders and leaned close enough that I could feel his breath on my ear. “Don’t be nervous, baby. I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

The other, dark–haired, moved behind me and let his fingers trail along my waist. “Want to get in the water? I could teach you to swim… or do something

else.”

Comments

LIKE

Write Comments

SHARE