Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 250

Shattered

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Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second Chance

Chapter 250

Elara

The corridor behind the main exhibition hall was quieter than I’d expected, almost eerily so after the buzz of the crowd settling into their seats. I told the staff member I needed to use the restroom before taking my place, and she nodded with a distracted smile, already turning toward the next contestant. My hands were clammy as I clutched my phone, Julian’s message still glowing on the screen.

I should have put the phone away. Should have focused on the competition ahead, on the canvas waiting for me in that transparent pod where cameras would broadcast every brushstroke to thousands of viewers. But my feet carried me down the side hallway almost of their own accord, drawn by some instinct I couldn’t name–perhaps the same one that had kept me checking the entrance every thirty seconds since I’d arrived.

The restrooms were at the far end of a service corridor, past storage rooms and a loading dock exit. I was halfway there when I heard voices drifting from around the corner–low, urgent, and unmistakably familiar. My steps faltered. One voice belonged to Sloane, sharp with barely controlled panic. The other was Ethan’s, and he sounded simultaneously defensive and exasperated.

I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering. I knew I should keep walking, that eavesdropping was beneath me, but something in Sloane’s tone–that edge of genuine fear I’d never heard before–rooted me in place.

…usgless! You said you could handle this! Her words were hissed rather than shouted, as if she were afraid of being overheard. “You promised me you’d find a way to-”

I’ve been trying,” Ethan cut in, his voice tight with frustration. But Vane Group’s interference changed everything. They’ve locked down every channel we

had. Sloane, you need to understand-

‘I don’t need to understand anything except that I’m about to walk into that competition with no advance knowledge of the prompt!” The desperation in her voice was palpable now, cracking through her usual composed facade. “All those preliminary sketches I had prepared are worthless now. How am I supposed

to-”

“You’ll have to rely on your actual skills for once,” Ethan said, and despite the situation, I heard a hint of bitterness creep into his tone. “Isn’t that what

you’ve been telling everyone you have?”

There was a beat of silence, then the sharp sound of a palm meeting fabric–she must have grabbed his jacket. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me. Not

now. Not when everything is falling apart because you couldn’t deliver on your promises.”

My breath caught in my throat. So I’d been right. Sloane had been getting advance information about the competition prompts, preparing her work ahead of

time while the rest of us went in blind. And Julian’s decision to pull Vane Group’s sponsorship had cut off her access to that insider track. The realization sent a surge of vindication through me, quickly followed by a colder understanding: she was scared. Genuinely, desperately scared of competing on equal

footing.

“I did everything I could,‘ Ethan was saying now, his voice dropping to a near–whisper. “But when Julian Vane himself gets involved, there’s only so much—‘

Footsteps echoed from the direction of the main hall, sharp and purposeful. Sloane’s next words came out in a rushed hiss: ‘We’ll discuss this later. Just… just stay close during the exhibition. I need you to-

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I pushed off from the wall and moved quickly toward the restrooms, my mind racing. By the time I emerged two minutes later, the corridor was empty, but I could still feel the ghost of their panic hanging in the air.

I made my way back to the preparation area, my earlier anxiety now mixed with something sharper, more focused. Julian’s intervention had leveled the playing field in a way I hadn’t fully appreciated until this moment.

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4:19 pm P W

Chapter 250

Back in the holding area, I found my assigned creation pod–Pod Seven, positioned in the second tier of the circular arrangement. My gaze swept across the audience again, searching for that familiar dark head, those sharp features that always seemed to find me in any crowd. Still nothing.

My phone buzzed. Another message from Julian: “Traffic is worse than expected. Don’t wait for me to start–just focus on your work. I’ll be watching as soon

as I arrive.

The hollow feeling in my chest deepened, but I forced myself to type back a simple “Okay‘ before sliding the phone into my bag. Around me, other contestants were settling into their pods, arranging their materials with varying degrees of nervous energy.

I recognized Nora three pods over, her expression determinedly calm despite the way her hands trembled slightly as she set out her brushes. Isabella Torres was in Pod Three, already projecting an air of confident superiority as she surveyed the setup. And directly across from me, in the prime Pod One position, Sloane Kennedy stood with her hands resting lightly on her barely visible baby bump, her face a mask of serene composure that I now knew was entirely

manufactured.

The head judge, Dr. Sterling, took her place at the central podium, her silver hair swept back in its customary elegant bun. The murmur of the crowd gradually died down as she adjusted the microphone.

“Welcome, finalists, to the Praxis Prize International Youth Art Competition Finals,” her voice rang out, clear and authoritative. “Today, you will have four hours to create an original work in response to a single–word prompt. You will have access to the materials you requested in advance, and you may work in any medium or combination of media you choose. The judges will evaluate your work based on technical skill, conceptual depth, and emotional resonance. Are there any questions?”

Silence. My palms were sweating again. I wiped them on my jeans, then immediately regretted it when I remembered the cameras were already broadcasting. Every gesture, every moment of doubt or determination, would be captured and analyzed by thousands of viewers.

Dr. Sterling’s expression softened slightly. “Then let us begin. Your prompt is-” She paused, and in that suspended moment I felt the entire hall hold its

breath. -Inheritance.”

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