Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Then back to the fog.

After each cycle, they’d increase the dosage slightly-“To stabilize you

after the interruption.”

I didn’t realize until much later that they were slowly destroying my

brain.

Lily’s second birthday was during a clear period.

Sloane needed a series of paintings for a museum retrospective

–“Make it your best work, Elara. This is the show that will establish

me internationally.”

For eight weeks, they reduced my medication to almost nothing.”

I painted like my life depended on it. Five large canvases, each one

pouring out years of trapped rage and love and loss.

But every moment I wasn’t painting, I was with Lily.

“Mama, can we make cookies?”

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“Yes, baby. Whatever you want.”

We made cookies. We read books. We danced to music in the living

room. I taught her the alphabet. I drew pictures of animals and she’d

guess what they were, laughing when I made the dog look like a cat.

“Mama’s silly!”

“Yes. Mama’s very silly.”

I took hundreds of photos on the nurse’s phone when she wasn’t

looking. Tried to memorize every detail of Lily’s face. The gap

between her front teeth. The cowlick at her hairline. The way she said

“I love you, Mama” every night before bed.

Because I knew what was coming.

After I finished Sloane’s paintings, Tristan came with a new bottle.

“You did exceptional work. Sloane is very pleased.” He set the

medication on the counter–the dosage was higher than before. “But

you pushed yourself too hard. The medical team is concerned about a

potential episode. We need to increase your treatment for your own

safety.”

“No. Please. I’m fine. I feel better than I have in years-

”

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“That’s the problem. You’re manic. Unstable. We can’t risk another breakdown with a young child in the house.”

“She needs me!”

“She needs a stable mother. Not someone who’ll have a psychotic

break and hurt her.”

I looked at Lily playing with blocks on the floor, humming to herself.

“If you refuse the medication, we’ll have to hospitalize you. And Lily

will stay with the nurse. Maybe permanently.”

I took the pills.

But this time, something was different.

The fog didn’t just return–it thickened. Darkened. Consumed.

I’d sleep fourteen hours and wake up exhausted. I’d try to paint

during Lily’s naptime but my hands wouldn’t cooperate, the brush

falling from my fingers.

“Mama’s tired,” I’d tell her when she asked to play. “Mama needs to

rest.”

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Her face would fall. “Okay, Mama.”

The nurse would take her. And I’d sleep. And sleep. And sleep.

Three months later, Sloane called about another commission.

“I need two paintings for the spring auction. Can you have them

ready in a month?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Tristan reduced my medication.

I tried to paint.

The canvas stayed blank.

I’d stand in front of it for hours, brush in hand, but my mind felt

broken. The images wouldn’t come. The colors looked wrong. My

hands shook.

Two weeks passed. Nothing.

Sloane called, irritated. “Where are my paintings?”

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“I’m trying. I just need more time-”

“You’ve had two weeks. With reduced medication, you should be

producing your best work.‘

“I can’t. Something’s wrong. I can’t see the images anymore. I can’t—”

“Figure it out, Elara. I have buyers waiting.”

She hung up.

I spent the next two weeks in front of blank canvases, crying.

The nurse wrote it all down.

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