Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Elara

My vision started to blur. Black spots dancing at the edges.

And then, suddenly, I wasn’t in the hallway anymore.

The memory hit me like a freight train.

The hospital room smelled like bleach and antiseptic. I’d given birth

two days ago.

Tristan came with his lawyers on the third day, before they’d even

discharged me.

“Elara, we need to discuss your postpartum care plan.”

“I’m fine. I just want to take Lily home.”

“That’s what we all want.” His smile was kind, reasonable. “But given

the circumstances–the stress of new motherhood, your history of

emotional instability–the family’s medical team recommends.

preventative treatment. Just to ensure you stay healthy. For Lily’s

sake.”

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“What kind of treatment?”

“Medication. Mood stabilizers. Anti–anxiety medication. Very

standard for high–risk mothers.” He slid papers across the bedside

table. “It’s voluntary, of course. But if you refuse, we’ll need to involve

Child Protective Services for an assessment. Which could delay taking

Lily home for weeks. Maybe months.”

I looked down at my daughter sleeping in the bassinet beside my bed.

I signed.

The first six months were bearable.

They gave me pills twice a day–morning and evening–but the

dosage was low enough that I could still function. Still think. Still

paint when Lily napped.

I lived in the Glass House with a nurse they’d hired, and I hated the

isolation but I had my daughter. She was perfect. She’d grab my finger

with her tiny hand and I’d feel like maybe, maybe I could survive this.

Then Sloane called.

“Elara, I need a painting for the Kennedy Foundation gala. Something large, impressive. You have three weeks.”

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I was holding Lily against my shoulder, trying to get her to burp. “I

can’t. I have a baby. I don’t have time to-”

“Tristan says you’re on medication that makes you drowsy. I’ll have

him reduce it so you can work. You’ll need to be sharp for this piece-

it’s going to be auctioned for charity. My name will be on it, so it

needs to be exceptional.”

The line went dead.

Two hours later, Tristan showed up.

“Sloane needs a painting.” He set a new pill bottle on the counter.

“Half dosage for the next three weeks. You’ll be clearer, more focused.

But after you finish, we’ll need to increase it again to compensate for

the interruption in treatment.”

That’s when I understood.

They’d keep me just sedated enough to control me, but clear enough

to paint when Sloane needed my work.

I was useful. That’s the only reason they let me keep some piece of

my mind.

For the next two years, my life followed a brutal rhythm.

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Most of the time: Full medication. Fog. Exhaustion. Days that blurred

together where I’d hold Lily but my arms felt too heavy, where I’d try

to sing to her but forget the words halfway through.

When Sloane needed a painting: Reduced medication. Three to four

weeks of relative clarity. I’d paint frantically, desperately, knowing

the fog would return. And during those precious clear weeks, I’d

spend every moment I wasn’t painting with Lily.

“Mama!” She’d run to me when I picked her up from the nurse’s care,

her little arms outstretched.

I’d hold her for hours. Read her books. Draw silly pictures that made

her laugh. Take her to the beach and let her splash in the waves while I sat on the sand and just watched her be alive and perfect and mine.

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