Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 218

Chapter 218

Elara

The nurse’s knock was gentle but insistent, pulling me from the half–conscious state I’d fallen into after Julian left my room. My throat still burned from the pool water, my chest ached with each breath, and the IV line in my arm felt like the only thing tethering me to

reality.

“Ms. Vance?‘ Her voice carried professional kindness. “Detective Brown is ready for you. She’d like everyone to meet in the conference

room on the third floor.”

I pushed myself upright slowly, every muscle protesting. Someone had left plain cotton pants and a loose sweater folded on the chair. beside my bed. I changed with trembling fingers, then let the nurse help me into the wheelchair that waited by the door like a silent judgment of my weakness.

The conference room was at the end of a long hallway, all glass walls and expensive furniture. The door stood slightly ajar, and I could hear low, tense voices inside–masculine, controlled, waiting.

The nurse knocked once, then pushed the door wider and wheeled me through.

The room fell silent as I entered. Detective Brown sat at the head of a long mahogany table, her expression professionally neutral. Julian stood by the window with his back to the door, his shoulders rigid beneath his suit jacket. And already seated at the table, arms crossed over his chest and face set in lines of unconcealed displeasure, was Ethan Holt.

He looked every inch the successful art critic in his charcoal gray suit and dark–framed glasses. But there was nothing professional about the way his eyes locked onto me as I wheeled myself into the room–cold, calculating, filled with hostility that made my skin crawl.

“Finally decided to grace us with your presence?” His voice dripped with disdain. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

Before I could respond, Julian turned sharply from the window and crossed the room in three long strides, positioning himself beside my wheelchair. His hand came to rest on the back of it in a gesture that was somehow both protective and possessive.

“Detective Brown,” he said, his voice clipped and businesslike, completely ignoring Ethan’s comment. “We can begin now.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he watched Julian’s hand on my wheelchair. “Really, Julian? You’re just going to stand there protecting her? Sloane is still lying in a hospital bed, and you haven’t even bothered to check on her once.”

The door opened again before anyone could respond, and the atmosphere shifted immediately. A private physician in an expensive suit entered first, his hand hovering solicitously at the elbow of the woman who followed.

Sloane Kennedy looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine spread on elegant suffering. Her haute couture maternity dress in soft beige draped perfectly over her barely visible baby bump. Her hair fell in artful waves around her shoulders, one hand resting protectively on

her stomach.

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Chapter 218

She paused when she saw me in the wheelchair, and something flickered across her face too quickly to identify before her feafaring

smoothed into gentle concern.

“Elara,” she said softly, her voice carrying just the right note of worried warmth. “You’re alright. I’m so glad.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t trust my voice not to shake, couldn’t trust myself not to scream at her in front of everyone. So I just

the armrests tighter and stared at her in silence.

Ethan was on his feet immediately, pulling out the chair beside his own with exaggerated care. “Sloane, please, sit down. Take your

You shouldn’t be on your feet after everything you’ve been through.”

She settled into the chair with theatrical slowness, one hand never leaving her stomach, every movement deliberate as if each step caused her pain. The physician hovered nearby, professionally concerned, and I felt bitter rage at the perfect picture they presented–the suffering pregnant woman, surrounded by people who cared.

And then there was me. Alone in my wheelchair near the door, no one asking if I needed anything. Even Julian had moved away slightly, positioning himself between Sloane and me as if he couldn’t decide which side he was on.

The contrast was deliberate, I realized. Sloane had orchestrated this entire entrance to establish the narrative before Detective Brown even spoke. She was the victim. And I was the outsider who didn’t belong.

Detective Brown cleared her throat. “Thank you all for coming. I know this has been a difficult night. First, I want to update you on our

investigation’s progress.”

She paused, her eyes moving from face to face, taking in the room’s dynamics with practiced observation.

“We’ve successfully retrieved all surveillance footage from the pool party,” she continued. “Multiple cameras captured the incident from various angles, giving us comprehensive high–definition coverage.”

I watched Sloane’s face carefully. Her expression remained perfectly composed, concerned but not alarmed. But her hand moved almost imperceptibly to the water glass in front of her, her fingers beginning to trace the rim in a repetitive, unconscious gesture.

She’d been planning to make the footage disappear, I realized suddenly. After playing the victim and painting me as the villain, she would’ve used her family’s connections to ensure the recordings were lost to “technical difficulties.”

But something in Detective Brown’s tone suggested that plan had already failed.

“That’s good,” Sloane said carefully, her voice modulated to sound relieved rather than anxious. “I’m glad there’s evidence. It will prove

exactly what happened.”

Detective Brown nodded slowly. “Actually, there’s something important about the timeline and evidence preservation I need to clarify.”

She turned to Julian. “Mr. Vane, when we initially contacted the property management to request the surveillance footage, what did they

tell us?”

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Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire’s Second Chance