Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 46

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second …

Chapter 46

Elara

The corridor was silent except for Mamá’s ragged breathing and the

distant tick of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.

I turned to face my mother. Her eyes were wild, her makeup smeared

with tears, her cleaning uniform wrinkled from a day’s work. She

looked smaller than I remembered–fragile, like the slightest wind

would blow her away.

“Elara.” Her voice cracked. “What have you done?”

I pulled my arm free gently, my throat still burning from Tristan’s

hands. “What I should have done years ago.”

“Don’t

“You’ve destroyed us!” She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me.

you understand? We have nothing! No money, no place to go, no—”

“We have each other.” The words tasted hollow even as I said them.

Mamá let out a bitter laugh that dissolved into a sob. Each other?

You think that’s enough? You think we can live on the street and be

happy because we have each other?”

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I wanted to remind her about those two checks–Mr. Vane Senior’s

final act of charity. But looking at her face, twisted with fear and

anger, I knew it wouldn’t matter. No amount of money would make up

for the safety she was losing.

The safety of servitude.

“Come on.” I took her hand. “Let’s go pack.”

She followed me up the stairs in silence, her steps heavy with dread.

My room looked the same as it had during the day–neat, sparse,

impersonal. The bed I’d slept in for years. The desk where I’d done

homework. The window that looked out over the gardens where I’d

watched Julian walk with Sloane, their heads bent together, laughing.

I pulled my suitcase from the closet. It was the same one I’d brought

three years ago–cheap vinyl with a broken wheel.

Mamá stood in the doorway, watching me fold clothes with

mechanical precision. “Where will we go?”

“I found a place.” I kept my voice steady. “In the Bronx. A garage

apartment. The landlady’s name is Rosa.”

.

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“The Bronx.” Mamá’s voice was hollow. “We’re moving to the Bronx.”

“It’s affordable. And it’s near my school-”

“I don’t care about your school!” She exploded suddenly, rushing

forward to grab the shirt from my hands. “Don’t you see? This isn’t

about you! This is about survival! This is about-”

She broke off, her hands shaking, and I saw it then–the real terror

underneath. Not just fear of losing the job. Fear of losing the dream.

The dream that had kept her going all these years, cleaning toilets

and scrubbing floors and accepting every humiliation with a smile,

because someday, somehow, her daughter would marry into the Vane

family and everything would be worth it.

And I’d just burned that dream to ashes.

“Mamá-”

“You’re selfish.” Her voice was flat now, emotionless. “You’ve always

been selfish. Your father would be ashamed.”

The words hit like a slap. I stood there, shirt still in hand, feeling the

sting spread across my face.

“My father?” I said quietly. “My father died saving Mr. Vane Senior’s

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life. And this is how they repay us? By letting Victoria hire men to

rape me? By covering up her crimes? By throwing us out when I dare

to defend myself?”

Mamá flinched but didn’t answer.

“If Papa were alive,” I continued, my voice shaking, “he’d tell me to

run. To get as far away from this family as possible. Because they

don’t see us as people, Mamá. We’re just… tools. And when tools

break, you throw them away.”

“Stop.” She held up her hand, tears streaming down her face. “Just

stop.”

I turned back to my packing. Three shirts. Two pairs of jeans.

Underwear. Socks. My painting supplies–the expensive oils Julian

had given me last summer, the brushes from Mr. Vane Senior’s

birthday gift. I hesitated, then packed them anyway. They were mine

now.

My father’s pocket watch sat on the nightstand, its glass face held

together with transparent tape. I picked it up carefully, wrapping it in

a soft scarf before placing it in the suitcase’s inner pocket.

Behind me, I heard Mamá sink onto the bed, her shoulders shaking

with silent sobs.

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“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I know you’re scared. But we’ll survive this. I

promise.”

She didn’t respond.

Thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Anna entered without waiting for permission, carrying a white

envelope. Her expression was smug, her eyes bright with malicious

satisfaction.

“Miss Vance.” She practically spat my name. “Mr. Vane Senior asked

me to deliver this.”

She tossed the envelope onto the bed carelessly. It slid off and landed

on the floor.

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