Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Elara

The apartment was… nothing like Blackwood.

The main space was open–living room and kitchen combined. A

sagging brown couch faced a small TV. A wooden dining table with

mismatched chairs sat near the window. The walls were covered in

artwork: paintings, photographs, sketches pinned up with

thumbtacks. A bookshelf in the corner overflowed with art books and

random paperbacks.

Everything was old. Nothing matched. The coffee table had water

rings. The rug was worn thin in places.

It was perfect.

“Kitchen’s basic but it works,” Rosa said, gesturing at the small galley

setup. Old fridge, gas stove, microwave with a cracked door. “Your

room’s down here.”

She led us down a short hallway past two other doors and a bathroom,

stopping at the first room on the left. When she opened it, my breath

caught.

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The room was tiny–maybe a hundred square feet. A double bed took

up most of the space, with a small desk and dresser squeezed in. But the window faced south, letting in moon light. Through the glass, I could see the elevated subway tracks, a graffiti–covered wall across the street, and the corner bodega with its bright awning.

It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t even particularly nice.

But it was mine.

“I know it’s small,” Rosa said apologetically. “But the light’s good for

painting, yeah?”

“It’s perfect.” My voice came out rough. “Thank you, Rosa.”

She beamed. “Let me introduce you to your roommates. YUKI! DIEGO!

Come meet the new girls!”

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. A moment later, a Japanese-

American girl appeared in the doorway–early twenties, high

ponytail, overalls covered in clay dust. She waved enthusiastically.

“Hey! I’m Yuki Tanaka, Parsons sculpture major. Welcome to the madhouse.” Her grin was infectious. “Fair warning: I work weird hours and sometimes the kiln smells like burning hair. Sorry in advance.”

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Behind her, a Latino guy in glasses poked his head in, clutching a

stack of art books. “Diego Morales, Pratt illustration. Hi. Ignore Yuki,

she’s always like this.” But he was smiling as he said it.

“I’m Elara,” I managed. “This is my mother, Maria. I’m a senior at St.

Valerius.”

Yuki’s eyes went wide. “St. Valerius? Holy shit, that’s like… uber–rich-

kid school. Are you secretly loaded?”

The silence stretched too long.

“Yuki,” Diego hissed, elbowing her. “Don’t—”

“It’s okay.” I cut him off, my voice flat. “I’m not rich. I was just…

staying with a wealthy family. I’m not anymore.”

Understanding flickered across both their faces. The kind of

understanding that said they’d heard stories like mine before. Foster

kids who aged out. Scholarship students who got kicked out. People

who didn’t fit into the world they’d been placed in.

“Well, you’re one of us now,” Yuki said firmly. “And if you ever want to

paint, the big table in the living room is fair game. We’re all night

owls anyway.”

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Diego nodded. “If you need quiet to study, just say so. We’re pretty

good about keeping the noise down.”

They left, and Rosa pressed a plastic container into my hands-

banana–leaf–wrapped parcels that smelled like heaven. “Pasteles. You

must be starving. Eat, eat.”

Mamá took the container with shaking hands. “Thank you,” she

whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you so much.”

Rosa squeezed her shoulder. “We take care of each other here. That’s

what neighbors do.”

After Rosa and Carlos left, Mamá and I stood in the tiny room, staring

at our suitcases.

“This is it?” Mamá’s voice was small. “This is where we’re living? We

don’t even have our own kitchen.”

I set my art supply case on the desk. “Yes, Mamá. This is it. We need

to be careful with money. And look-” I pointed out the window. “The

subway’s two blocks away. I can get to school in twenty minutes.”

She sank onto the bed, crying quietly.

I turned away, unpacking methodically. Clothes in the dresser. Art