Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Julian

The door clicked shut behind her.

I sat on the bed, staring at the empty space where Elara had stood. My head throbbed–a dull reminder of crystal connecting with skull.

“Thank you.”

Two words I’d never expected to say to her. Two words that tasted

wrong in my mouth.

My gaze dropped to the medical report on the nightstand. “Benzodiazepine positive in the soup. Patient blood test positive for

Benzodiazepine.”

She could have let it happen. Should have, if her goal was what I’d

always suspected. One compromising photo, one viral scandal, and she’d have leverage for life. The Vane family name dragged through

tabloids. Stock prices plummeting.

Instead, she’d called a doctor. Hit me with an ashtray. Stayed through

the night.

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Chapter 23

Why?

I picked up my phone, pulled up household surveillance logs. Three

days of data. Her patterns had shifted completely.

No more hallway encounters. No coffee waiting in my study. No late-

night preparations of documents I hadn’t asked for. She’d even

avoided eating in the family dining room.

The evidence in her bedroom came back to me. That notebook filled

with “Elara Vane” signatures. Pages and pages of them, practiced until

perfect. Sketchbooks stuffed with drawings of my hands, my profile,

my back hunched over work.

Hours of obsession captured in graphite.

That wasn’t something you could fake.

But now–this sudden withdrawal? The refusal to come to Boston, the

distant seating on the plane, pushing me away when the drug made

me reach for her?

I leaned back against the headboard, fingers drumming the mattress.

Playing hard to get.

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The analysis clicked into place with cold satisfaction. Classic

manipulation tactic–withdraw to make the target pursue. I’d seen it

a hundred times. In boardrooms, at charity galas, from social climbers

of every variety.

She thought acting indifferent would make me chase what ran away.

Too transparent, Elara. Too naive.

But the drugging didn’t fit. That required planning, risk, potential

scandal-

My mind circled to Sloane. She’d insisted on preparing the soup.

Tried to convince me to let her drive home. Been strangely

disappointed when Elara appeared fine after the champagne.

No. I dismissed it immediately. Sloane was devoted. Patient. She’d

waited years for me. She didn’t need to drug me–I was already hers,

had always been hers.

The problem was Elara. This girl who thought psychological games

would suddenly make me want what I’d never wanted.

I made my decision and dialed.

“Julian?” Sloane’s voice came warm, slightly breathless. “You’re awake.

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Chapter 23

I was so concerned-

“I’m fine. The event is over. I’m returning to New York today.”

Brief pause. “I’ll see you home in a few days then-”

“Come to New York. Stay at Blackwood Estate.”

The silence stretched. When she spoke, surprise colored her careful

tone. “Really? But wouldn’t that be–I mean, what about your

grandfather-”

“I make decisions in my house.” My voice stayed flat. “You’re my

girlfriend. It’s appropriate you stay there.”

“Oh, Julian.” Her breath caught. “I’ve wanted this for so long. To be

with your family, part of your daily life-”

“Pack your things. We’ll travel together this afternoon.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you, darling.”

I ended the call and moved to the window, watching Boston’s skyline

emerge through morning light.

Let’s see how long you can keep up this act, Elara.

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Chapter 23

Elara

The private jet’s leather seats gleamed under recessed lighting.

Polished wood panels. Floor–to–ceiling windows revealing endless

blue sky.

I chose the back row. As far from them as the cabin allowed.

SAT prep book open on my lap. Same page for twenty minutes. The Pythagorean theorem–something I’d solved hundreds of times-

blurred into meaningless symbols.

Because two rows ahead, Julian sat with Sloane’s hand resting on his

arm, her head tilted toward his shoulder in perfect domesticity.

“I’m so glad you invited me,” Sloane murmured, voice pitched to

carry. “I’ve missed being close. Missed… us.”

Julian’s response came too low for me to hear. Sloane smiled, fingers

tracing patterns on his jacket sleeve.

I forced my eyes back to the textbook. My pen hovered uselessly over

the page.

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“Elara.”

I looked up. Sloane had turned in her seat, perfect smile fixed in

place.

“I heard about last night. Julian told me you called the doctor. Very….

responsible of you.”

The pause before “responsible” was deliberate. As was her gaze

sweeping my rumpled clothes, rigid posture, white–knuckled grip on

the pen.

“Thank you, Miss Kennedy.” I kept my voice neutral. “I’m glad Dr.

Smith arrived quickly.”

“Yes, well.” Her smile widened fractionally. “Julian was just telling me

how grateful he is. Weren’t you, darling?”

She turned back to him, hand sliding higher on his arm. “I can’t wait

to settle into our home. It’ll be wonderful, sharing Blackwood Estate

with you every day.”

Our home.

The possessive claim hit like a slap. Territorial. A boundary drawn in

permanent ink.

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Chapter 23

I looked back down at my book. The numbers still wouldn’t focus.

Julian said nothing in response to Sloane’s comment. But I felt his

gaze flick backward, catching my rigid shoulders, too–focused stare

on a problem I couldn’t solve.

The rest of the flight passed in Sloane’s murmured plans about family

dinners, gallery openings, holiday gatherings. Each sentence

emphasizing togetherness, partnership, belonging.

I solved the same equation three times.

Wrong every time.

Three black cars pulled through Blackwood Estate’s iron gates at 4

1. PM. The Gothic Revival mansion loomed ahead, ivy crawling stone

columns like grasping fingers reaching for the sky.