Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 249

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second Chance

Chapter 249

Elara

My stomach dropped. ‘How bad is it?”

“It’s fine, just-‘ He broke off with a sharp intake of breath. “Some of them are starting to pull. I can’t reach properly to fix them.”

I was already grabbing my jacket. “Where are you?”

“My apartment. But if you’re busy-

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough with something that might have been relief. “Thank you. I’ll have the doorman let you up.”

I hung up and stared at my phone, my pulse racing, knowing I was making a mistake but unable to stop myself. This was how it started last time–me running to help him, me letting him need me, me falling back into old patterns I’d sworn I’d broken.

But even as I told myself to stay away, to text Atlas instead, to maintain my boundaries, I was already out the door and heading for the subway.

Just this once, I told myself. Just to make sure he’s okay.

But I knew I was lying.

When I arrived at his building forty minutes later–the subway had been delayed, naturally–the doorman waved me through with a knowing look that made my face burn. I took the elevator up to his penthouse, my heart hammering harder with each floor we climbed.

The door was unlocked when I arrived, just like he’d promised. I pushed it open cautiously. “Julian?”

“In here. His voice came from the bedroom, tight with pain.

I found him sitting on the edge of his bed, his shirt already off, his face pale and drawn. When he looked up at me, relief flooded his expression so completely that it made my chest ache.

“You came,‘ he said softly.

“Of course I came, I set down my bag and moved toward him, my earlier resolve to keep my distance crumbling with every step. ‘Let me see.”

He turned slowly, and I saw immediately what the problem was. Some of the bandages had started to peel away at the edges, the adhesive failing, and the exposed wounds were angry and red, weeping clear fluid mixed with traces of blood.

“Jesus, Julian,” I whispered. “You should have called me sooner.”

“I didn’t want to bother you. You have the finals to prepare for

“Stop. I reached for the medical supplies on his nightstand. Just stop trying to handle everything alone.”

I worked in silence, carefully removing the old dressings, cleaning the wounds with antiseptic that made him hiss through his teeth, applying fresh bandages with hands that gradually steadied as I fell into the thythm of the task. He sat perfectly still, his breathing controlled and even, but I could feel the tension

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Chapter 249

radiating from his body.

‘I’m sorry,” I murmured as I smoothed down the last piece of medical tape. “I know it hurts.”

“It’s not the pain.” His voice was low and rough. “It’s you. Being this close to you and not being able to touch you. That’s what hurts.”

I froze, my hands still resting lightly on his back. “Julian—”

“I know.” He didn’t turn around. “I know we’re not there yet. I know you’re still figuring out if you can trust me again. But Elara, these past few days, having

you in my life even just as texts and phone calls–it’s been the best part of my recovery. The only part that makes any of this bearable.

I should have pulled away. Should have reminded him that we were supposed to be keeping things professional. Should have protected myself from the hope

I could hear creeping into his voice.

Instead, I found myself saying, “I’ve gotten used to your messages too. To knowing you’re there.”

He turned slightly, just enough to look at me over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The admission felt dangerous, like stepping off a cliff. “It’s… nice. Having someone who understands what I’m up against.”

“It’s more than nice for me,” he said quietly. “It’s everything.”

Before I had time to think it through, I asked the question that had been burning in my mind for days, “Will you come the day after tomorrow? To the

competition?

I stared at his back, my heart racing, hating myself for caring so much about his answer.

He answered quickly, “Of course. I promised you we would face this together.”

A wave of relief washed over me, so intense it was almost painful. I said, “Okay. Good.”

“Get some good rest these two days,” he said gently. “The day after tomorrow, show them what you’re made of. I’ll be there, watching you prove everyone

wrong.”

Competition Day: 8:30 AM

The Arts Center was even more imposing in person than it had looked in photos. I arrived thirty minutes early, my hands shaking as I signed in at the registration desk, my stomach a knot of anxiety and anticipation.

The finals venue was massive–a circular exhibition hall with ten transparent creation pods arranged in the center, each equipped with professional cameras that would livestream our process to screens around the room and online. The audience seating rose in tiers around the perimeter, already beginning to fill with art critics, media representatives, academy faculty, and curious onlookers.

I scanned the crowd immediately, looking for Julian. My eyes swept over the growing sea of faces–Dr. Sterling in the front row with the other judges, Isabella Torres chatting with her supporters in the third tier, Ethan Holt near the press section with his camera crew–but no sign of that familiar dark head, those sharp eyes that always seemed to find me in any crowd.

My chest tightened with something I refused to name as disappointment.

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Chapter 249

I pulled out my phone, my fingers moving before I could stop them: “Are you here yet?”

The response came within seconds: “Picking up an important guest. I’ll be there soon. I promise. Good luck. I’m with you.”

I stared at the words “important guest,” my stomach twisting. Who could be more important than being here from the start? Who was he prioritizing over-

Stop it, I told myself firmly. This isn’t about him. This is about you and your art and proving you belong here.

But even as I tried to refocus, I couldn’t shake the hollow feeling in my chest, the sense that maybe I’d been foolish to expect him to show up, to believe his

promises meant anything.

‘Elara Vance?‘ A competition official appeared at my elbow, tablet in hand. “We’re ready to begin seating the finalists. Please follow me to your creation

pod.”

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