Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 240

Chapter 240

Elara

The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as Atlas drove us through the night, the car cutting through traffic with practiced efficiency. In the back seat,

Julian sat beside me, one hand pressed against his shoulder.

His face was pale, jaw tight with pain he refused to voice, and every time the car hit a bump or turned a corner, I saw the way his fingers would clench

harder against the leather seat, knuckles going white.

I stared down at my phone, fingers hovering over the screen. The message to Raven was already typed out: “Raven, something came up tonight. Can’t make

dinner. Rain check? I’ll buy next time.”

I hit send and watched the message disappear into the digital void, then let my hand fall to my lap. The phone felt heavy, a small weight that somehow represented all the normal things I was supposed to be doing right now instead of sitting in this car next to a man who’d just taken thirty lashes because he’d chosen me over everything his family had planned for him.

My eyes slid sideways to Julian. He was staring straight ahead, his breathing carefully controlled, but I could see the fine tremor running through his shoulders, the way his throat worked when he swallowed. He hadn’t made a sound since we’d gotten in the car. Hadn’t complained, hadn’t asked for pain medication, hadn’t done anything except sit there with that terrible, stubborn silence that made my chest ache.

Atlas’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching mine for just a second. There was something in his expression–concern, maybe, or worry–but he didn’t say anything. Just kept driving, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated us toward whatever private hospital Julian had accounts with, the kind of place where money bought discretion and no one asked uncomfortable questions.

“We’re almost there, sir,” Atlas said quietly, his voice carefully neutral. “ETA three minutes.”

Julian made a small sound of acknowledgment, barely more than a breath. I watched his reflection in the window glass, saw the way his eyes had drifted half–closed, like he was using every ounce of concentration just to stay conscious. The blood had spread further down his shirt now, dark and wet, and I could smell it–metallic and sharp, cutting through the car’s leather–and–cologne scent.

My hands curled into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. I’d built such careful walls around my heart these past weeks, had worked so hard to convince myself that I didn’t care what happened to him, that his choices and his pain were his own problem.

But seeing him like this–broken and bleeding because he’d finally, finally chosen me over the perfect life his family had laid out for him–those walls were crumbling faster than I could shore them up.

I hated it. Hated the way my chest felt tight with worry, hated the way my fingers itched to reach out and check his pulse, hated the way some treacherous part of me wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time was different.

The car slowed, turning into a discreet driveway that led to a building that looked more like an upscale hotel than a hospital. No emergency room signs, no ambulances, just a quiet entrance with soft lighting and a doorman who nodded at Atlas like he’d been expecting us. Of course he had. People like Julian didn’t just show up at hospitals–their people called ahead, made arrangements, ensured everything would be handled with maximum efficiency and

minimum publicity.

Atlas pulled up to the entrance and immediately got out, moving around to open Julian’s door with swift professionalism. I scrambled out on my side, my legs unsteady as I stood, and watched as Julian tried to get himself out of the car with some semblance of dignity. He made it halfway before his legs buckled, and I found myself rushing forward on pure instinct, catching his arm before he could fall.

He was heavier than I expected, solid muscle and bone, and for a second I thought we’d both go down. But then Atlas was there, supporting Julian’s other side, and together we got him standing. Up close, I could see how bad it really was–the way his skin had gone gray, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the

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Chapter 240

slight glaze to his eyes that spoke of shock and blood loss.

I can walk, Julian said, his voice rough but steady. A lie, obviously, but one he seemed determined to maintain.

“Of course you can, sir,” Atlas replied in that perfectly neutral tone that somehow conveyed both respect and deep skepticism. “But perhaps you’ll allow us to assist you anyway.”

A doctor and two nurses appeared at the entrance, moving toward us with quick, efficient steps. The doctor–a middle–aged woman with silver–streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun–took one look at Julian and her expression shifted into something professionally concerned.

“Mr. Vane,‘ she said, her voice calm and authoritative. ‘Let’s get you inside.”

They took over from me and Atlas, guiding Julian through the doors and down a quiet hallway that smelled of antiseptic and expensive air freshener. I

followed because I didn’t know what else to do, my feet moving on autopilot while my brain struggled to process everything that had happened in the last

hour.

We ended up in a private treatment room, all gleaming equipment and soft lighting. The nurses helped Julian onto the examination table, and I watched as

they began the careful process of removing his jacket and shirt. He didn’t protest, just sat there with his eyes closed and his jaw set, letting them peel the

blood–soaked fabric away from his skin.

When they finally got the shirt off, I had to look away for a second, my stomach lurching. His back was a mess of deep, angry wounds, the skin split open in

parallel lines that wept blood and clear fluid. Some of them were still bleeding sluggishly, and I could see the outline of muscle beneath in places where the

lash had cut particularly deep.

“Miss, you’ll need to wait outside,” one of the nurses said gently, touching my elbow.

I opened my mouth to argue, then caught Julian’s eye. He was looking at me over his shoulder, and there was something in his expression–not quite pleading, but close. Like he wanted me to stay but wouldn’t ask. Like he was giving me the choice to leave if I wanted to.

“I’ll wait right outside,‘ I heard myself say, my voice coming out smaller than I’d intended. “I’ll be just outside the door.”