Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 31

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second …

Chapter 31

Elara

I sat down across from him. Picked up my chopsticks. “Lunch. Aren’t

you hungry?”

I kept my tone light. Innocent. As if I’d made exactly what he’d asked

for.

“You know I don’t eat spicy food.” Each word was precise. Clipped.

I met his eyes. Blinked. “Oh, do I? I must have forgotten. I’ve been so stressed lately.” I scooped up a spoonful of soup. Blew on it. Tasted it.

The heat and sourness bloomed on my tongue. Exactly right. “Mmm.

This is exactly what I needed.”

I watched him from under my lashes. His jaw worked. His fingers

tapped the table once. Twice. The sound was sharp against the

marble.

He was deciding something. I could see it in the tightness around his eyes. The way his hand hovered near his laptop.

He could refuse to eat. Order takeout. But that would mean admitting

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I’d affected him.

He could explode. Throw the food. Yell. But that would make him look

petty. Out of control.

Or he could eat it. Swallow the challenge I’d laid down.

He reached for the chopsticks. His movements were stiff. Awkward.

He rarely used them. Picked up a piece of tofu. His hand was steady

but his grip was wrong. Too tight.

He put it in his mouth.

I watched his face. The way his eyebrows drew together. The tension

in his throat as he swallowed. His eyes watered slightly. Just for a

second.

He reached for his water glass. Drank. Then picked up another piece.

And another.

I focused on my own meal. Kept my head down. But my peripheral

vision tracked every micro–expression. Every time he swallowed.

Every time his hand hesitated before taking another bite.

Look at you. The thought was bitter and satisfied at once. Eating food

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you hate because you can’t admit I got to you.

He finished half the bowl before setting down his chopsticks. The

sound clicked against the marble.

“You’re testing my patience, Elara.`

I looked up. His face was flushed. From the spice or from anger, I

couldn’t tell. “I just made lunch, Mr. Vane. You’re the one who asked

me to cook.

His eyes narrowed. His lips parted. I thought he was going to yell. I

could see him wanting to.

Then he closed his mouth.

Because I was right. And we both knew it.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Finally he pushed back his chair. Stood. “I have work to do at the

office.” He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “Stay here.

Don’t leave this apartment.”

‘Mr. Vane-

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“That’s an order, Elara.” He didn’t look at me. “I’ll be back this

evening.”

The door closed behind him. Not quite a slam. But firm enough to

make the windows rattle.

I sat at the table for a long moment. Staring at his half–empty bowl.

At the chopsticks he’d abandoned.

Then I stood. Cleared the dishes. Rinsed them in the sink. The water

ran hot over my hands. Soap suds slid down white porcelain.

The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. Outside the windows, the

river moved sluggishly. Gray under gray sky. A ferry cut across the

water. Tiny from this height.

I dried my hands. Walked to the living room windows. Pressed my

palm against the glass. It was cold. The city spread out below.

Manhattan on one side. New Jersey on the other. Bridges connecting

them. People moving between. All of them with places to go. People

to see.

I was alone twenty–four floors up.

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My phone was in my bag. I pulled it out. Opened my banking app. The

screen loaded slowly.

Balance: “$3,847.”

Every dollar I had in the world. Insurance money from my father’s

death. Allowances saved over years of never spending anything on

myself.

I did the math in my head. If I rented the cheapest room in the Bronx.

Eight hundred a month. Plus food. Subway fare. Books. I could survive

four months. Maybe five if I was careful.

But I couldn’t just leave. Not without making the Vanes accept it. Not

without them agreeing to let me go.

I opened a browser. Typed: “affordable housing Bronx“.

The results loaded. Pages and pages of listings. Studio apartments. Shared rooms. Converted warehouses. I scrolled through. Most

wanted first and last month’s rent. Security deposit. Proof of income.

I didn’t have proof of income. I was a student.

Then I saw it:

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“Shared apartment–The Iron District, Bronx. $750/month. Artists

only. No credit check. Contact Rosa.”

The photos showed a raw space. Exposed brick walls. Paint–splattered

concrete floors. Two young women with colorful hair smiled at the

camera. One had a canvas propped behind her. The other held a

pottery wheel.

It looked chaotic. Lived–in. Real.

I clicked the contact button. My hands were shaking slightly. I typed:

“Hi Rosa. I’m a high school senior applying to art programs. Are you

still looking for a roommate? I can view tonight if possible.”

I hit send before I could second–guess myself.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

“Yeah girl! 7pm at Franklin Street station? I’ll take you to see it.”

My heart pounded. Seven pm. Three hours from now.

I typed back: “I’ll be there.”

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I changed in Julian’s guest bathroom. The same bathroom I’d used in

my previous life. White subway tiles. Chrome fixtures. A mirror that

showed too much.

Black jeans. Dark hoodie. Sneakers. I pulled my hair into a low

ponytail. Looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked young. Small. Forgettable.

Good.

I checked my bag. Five hundred dollars cash–emergency money I

kept separate from my bank account. The broken watch wrapped in