Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Elara

Julian stumbled back. The loss of contact made him sway. Confusion

flickered across his drugged features–genuine bewilderment mixed

with something darker. Want. Need. Chemistry that had nothing to do

with choice.

“I’m not Sloane!” The words tore out of me. “I’m Elara! I’m not her!”

He blinked. Struggling to focus. His gaze traveled over my face like he

was seeing me for the first time. Or trying to remember who I was

through the fog.

“Elara…” He said my name slowly. Tasting it. His hand rose toward my

face again-

My phone rang. Shrill in the silence.

Dr. Smith. It had to be Dr. Smith.

But I couldn’t reach it. Julian was too close, his body blocking the

path to where I’d set my purse on the side table. And the look in his

eyes–God, the look in his eyes. Like he was drowning and I was air.

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“Julian.” I tried one more time. Softer. “You’re not yourself. The drug-

it’s making you confused. Please, just sit down-”

“Don’t want to sit.” His words slurred worse now. He took a step

toward me. “Want-”

His hand reached out. Fingers grazing my arm, sliding up-

I didn’t think. My eyes swept the room. Found the crystal ashtray on

the coffee table. Heavy. Solid.

I lunged for it.

My fingers closed around cold glass. I spun. Julian was right there,

too close, reaching-

I swung.

The ashtray connected with the back of his skull with a dull,

sickening thud.

Julian’s eyes went wide. Then blank.

He dropped.

I caught him halfway down, my hands under his arms, and we both

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sank to the floor in a graceless heap. His weight crushed against me. I shoved him off, gasping, and he rolled onto his back on the carpet.

Unconscious. Still breathing.

The ashtray slipped from my fingers. Hit the carpet with a muffled

thump.

My hands shook. Then my arms. Then my whole body.

I’d just–I’d just hit him. Knocked him out. The man who’d controlled

every aspect of my life for years. The man who’d taken my daughter,

my freedom, my future.

And now he lay on his penthouse floor, helpless.

Tears came. Hot and fast and unstoppable. Not from sadness. Not

from regret.

From relief.

I’d protected myself.

Finally. Finally.

The phone rang again. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my purse,

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answered.

“Miss Vance?” A woman’s voice. Professional. Concerned. “This is Dr.

Smith. I’m in the lobby-”

“Penthouse suite. Floor twelve.” My voice barely worked. “Please

hurry.”

“Is everything—”

“He’s unconscious. He was drugged. I don’t know what it was, but he’s

-please, just come.”

“I’m on my way.”

Five minutes. It took five minutes for her to reach the suite. Five

minutes of me kneeling beside Julian, checking his pulse, his

breathing, making sure I hadn’t killed him.

His heartbeat was strong. Steady. The bump on his head was already

swelling, but his skull didn’t feel fractured.

He’d be fine.

Probably.

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When the knock came, I checked the peephole three times before

opening the door.

Dr. Smith was young–early thirties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back,

wearing jeans and a blazer. She carried a medical bag and moved with

quick, competent efficiency.

“What happened?”

i

I told her. Fast and clinical. The soup. The symptoms. His attempt to

-to kiss me. The ashtray.

She didn’t judge. Just knelt beside Julian, checking vitals, shining a

penlight in his eyes.

“Pupils are dilated but reactive. Pulse elevated. This looks like ” She

opened her bag, pulled out an injection vial. “Likely a benzodiazepine

mixed with something else. I’m going to administer naloxone first,

see if that helps.”

She worked while she talked. The injection went into Julian’s arm.

Then she drew blood samples, sealed them in vials.

“These go to the lab. We’ll know exactly what he was given.” She

looked at me. “You said the soup was pre–made?”

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“Yes. Left in the kitchen. I just–I just reheated it.”

“And you didn’t eat or drink any?”

“No.”

“Good.” She set up an IV, taped it to Julian’s hand. “He’ll need fluids.

The naloxone should help, but whatever else was in that soup will

take time to metabolize.”

I watched her work. Professional. Detached. No questions about why

a girl my age was alone in a hotel suite with an unconscious man at

eleven at night.

Maybe she’d seen worse. Maybe she just didn’t care.

After fifteen minutes, Julian’s breathing evened out. The flush faded

from his face. Dr. Smith checked his vitals again and nodded.

“He’s stable. Should wake up in a few hours.” She packed her bag.

“Someone needs to stay with him. Monitor for complications.”

“I will.”

She looked at me then. Really looked. “Are you all right? Do you need

me to examine you?”

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“No. I’m–I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she didn’t push.

“I’ll send the lab results to this number.” She handed me her card. “If his condition changes–difficulty breathing, seizures, anything–call 911 immediately.”

“Thank you.” I pressed cash into her hand. Double what we’d agreed.

“And please–this stays between us.”

“Doctor–patient confidentiality.” She paused at the door. “Take care of

yourself, Miss Vance.”

Then she was gone.

The suite fell quiet. Just the hum of climate control and Julian’s

steady breathing.

I should have left. Gone back to my own room, locked the door,

pretended none of this had happened.

But I couldn’t.

I sank down on the floor beside the couch where Julian lay. Watched

the IV drip. Counted his breaths.

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He’d almost–tonight could have been-

But it wasn’t. I’d stopped it. Changed it.

A laugh bubbled up. Strangled and half–hysterical. Then another. And

tears again, streaming down my face while I laughed and cried and