Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 207

Reborn at Eighteen. The Billionaire’s Second Chance

Chapter 207

Elara

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I couldn’t–wouldn’t–sit in a car with them, wouldn’t endure the ride to the hospital watching Julian’s attention fixed on Sloane while I sat in the back like forgotten luggage. I forced myself to stand, even though my legs shook and my vision swam with the effort.

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “Elara, you nearly drowned. You need to be examined-

“I said I’m fine.” I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shivering that had nothing to do with the cold anymore. Every cell in my body screamed at me to accept help, to let someone take care of me for once, but the thought of being in that car, of watching him choose her again and again, was more than I could bear.

Julian took a step toward me, his expression shifting into something that might have been concern or frustration or both. “Don’t be stubborn about this. You could have water in your lungs, you could-

Julian. Sloane’s voice cut through, suddenly sharp with pain. “Julian, I— She gasped, her face contorting as her hand pressed harder against her stomach. “It hurts. It really hurts. The baby-

The transformation was instant. Whatever conflict had been on Julian’s face vanished, replaced by focused alarm. He moved to her side in three long strides, kneeling beside her with a gentleness that made something in my chest crack and splinter. “Where does it hurt? Show

me.”

“Here.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, tears streaming down her face as she guided his hand to her lower abdomen. “It’s sharp, like cramping, and I–oh God, Julian, what if something’s wrong with the baby?”

The crowd pressed closer, a collective gasp of concern rippling through them. Ethan was there immediately, his earlier anger at Julian forgotten in the face of Sloane’s distress. “We need to get her to a hospital now. Julian, your car-

‘I’ll drive her.” Julian was already moving, sliding one arm under Sloane’s knees and the other around her back, lifting her with the kind of careful precision that spoke of practice, of intimacy, of a thousand small moments I’d never been part of and never would be. She nestled against his chest with a small whimper, and I watched him murmur something to her, too low for me to hear, his lips nearly brushing her temple.

I watched them go, watched Julian carry her toward the house while the crowd parted like the Red Sea, everyone murmuring their concern and support. And I stayed there, kneeling on the cold concrete, water still dripping from my hair, shivering so violently I thought my bones might shake apart. The security guards took up positions around me–not protective, but restrictive. Like I was a criminal awaiting judgment rather than a victim who’d nearly drowned.

Around me, the whispers continued, each one a small knife: “Can’t believe she’d do something so awful… Pushing a pregnant woman “And Julian still saved her first…” “What a waste of his kindness…” She should be ashamed…”

enough

But I wasn’t ashamed. I was angry. Furious, even, with a rage that burned hot enough to momentarily override the cold seeping into my bones. Because this was exactly what Sloane wanted–to paint me as the villain while she played the martyred saint, to turn even my

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9:54 Fri, Mar 27

Chapter 207

57

near–death experience into proof of my own moral failings. And the worst part was that it was working. Everyone believed her. Everyone except…

I looked around, searching the crowd for any face that showed doubt, any hint that someone might question Sloane’s version of events. But all I saw was condemnation, curiosity, or worse–the gleeful schadenfreude of people watching someone else’s downfall and feeling superior for it.

My phone was somewhere in my abandoned clothes, probably already being rifled through by someone looking for more ammunition

against me. My body ached, my lungs still burned, and I could feel a fever starting to build, my skin alternating between icy chills and

flushed heat. But none of that mattered as much as the crushing weight of isolation, the knowledge that I was completely, utterly alone in

this.

Then Ethan was back, standing over me with his arms crossed. “Elara Vance, you’d better come clean now. Why did you push Sloane into the pool? Was it because you’re jealous of her relationship with Julian? Or jealous that she won first place? Or… both?”

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