Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 42

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second …

Chapter 42

“But after this, I’m done. I’m moving out. We’ll have nothing to do

with each other. No more family dinners. No more pretending. You go

your way, I go mine. Strangers.”

His face went blank with shock.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Watch me.”

I turned and walked away, my spine straight, my footsteps steady

even though my hands were trembling.

Behind me, Julian’s voice followed like a curse.

“Don’t think you can run. Not until I’ve finished investigating what

really happened. You stay where I can see you.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t look back.

I made it halfway down the corridor before a figure stepped into my

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Chapter 42

path, blocking the turn toward my room.

Tristan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his St. Valerius

uniform still crisp and perfect, his tie knotted just so. He’d clearly just

returned from school–probably came straight here when he heard

about the “incident.”

“Elara.” His voice was smooth, almost kind. “I heard you had quite the

day. Very brave of you.”

I stopped, my muscles tensing.

“Fighting with Victoria and Sloane?” He pushed his gold–rimmed

glasses up his nose, and his smile was all wrong–too sharp at the

edges. “Have you forgotten who you are? You’re a charity case. A stray

we took in out of pity. Without this family, you and your mother

would be on the streets.”

He straightened, taking a step closer, and his tone shifted to

something softer, more dangerous.

“I know you’re stressed. College applications, portfolio reviews, all

that pressure. But that doesn’t give you the right to lash out at family,

You should be grateful. You should know your place.”

I raised my eyes to meet his, and I didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

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“Enough, Tristan.” My voice was flat and cold. “Stop pretending.”

His smile faltered. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not worried about me. You’re not protecting the family.” I took

a step forward and he actually backed up slightly. “You’re just scared

I’ll ruin things for Sloane. Your precious, untouchable Sloane.”

–

His face went white. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re in love with her.” The words came out clinical, factual. “Have

been for years. You jump every time she calls. You show up first

whenever she visits. Last Christmas, you drove two hours to take her

home when Julian was out of town.”

“That was–that was just-”

“Just what? Coincidence?” I laughed, and it was bitter. “You think I

haven’t noticed? How you orbit around her like a sad little moon?

How you’ve spent years doing her dirty work, hoping she’ll finally see

you?”

“Shut up.” His voice shook. “You don’t know anything.”

“You order white roses every year, one week before her birthday.

Never sign your name.” I watched his face crumble with each word.

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“Your office has a drawer full of her magazine covers. Her interviews.

That pathetic letter you typed but never sent–‘Dear Sloane, if you

could see me…“”

“Shut up!”

His hand cracked across my face so hard my vision went white.

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I tasted blood, felt my cheek burning, but I didn’t touch it. Didn’t give

him the satisfaction.

Instead, I smiled. Cold and sharp and cruel.

“What did all that devotion get you, Tristan? A thank you? A smile?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Or will you just stand beside Julian at the wedding? Watch them cut the cake, toast their happiness, and then be Uncle Tristan to their children?”

Something broke in his eyes.

He lunged forward with a roar, his hands closing around my throat,

and suddenly I couldn’t breathe–couldn’t scream-

He slammed me against the wall and my head cracked against stone.

His fingers dug into my windpipe and his face was twisted with rage,

unrecognizable.

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“You know nothing!” Spit flew from his mouth. “If you say one word

about this to anyone–if you breathe a fucking syllable–I’ll destroy

you and your whore mother both! I’ll make sure you never work again!

Never go to college! I’ll ruin you!”

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