Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Elara

The bodega on the corner smelled like coffee and fresh bread.

Six–thirty in the morning. The street was just waking up–delivery

trucks rumbling past, a man hosing down the sidewalk in front of his

barbershop, the rattle of the elevated subway overhead.

I pushed open the glass door, a bell jingling. The store was small,

cramped with shelves of canned goods and boxes of cereal. Behind

the counter, a middle–aged Latino man looked up from his

newspaper.

“Morning,” he said, his English carrying a thick Spanish accent. “First

time here?”

“Yes.” I pulled my thin jacket tighter-$5 at the thrift store on 149th

Street, the sleeves a little too long. “I just moved into the building

upstairs.”

His face broke into a warm smile. “Ah! Welcome to the neighborhood.

What can I get you?”

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beside me dozed against the window. Across from me, a construction

worker read the newspaper.

Normal people. Living normal lives.

For the first time in years, I was one of them.

My chest felt strange. Not tight anymore. Just… open. Like I could

finally breathe all the way down.

I closed my eyes.

This is just the beginning.

The moment I walked through the gates of St. Valerius Academy, I

knew something was wrong.

The usual morning chatter in the courtyard had a different quality to it–sharper, more excited. Students clustered in groups, heads bent

over their phones. When I walked past, their heads snapped up.

Stared.

A freshman girl actually ran up with her phone out, snapping a photo

before I could react.

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“Oh my God, it’s really her,” she stage–whispered to her friend.

My stomach dropped. The lightness from this morning vanished.

Emily appeared at my elbow, slightly out of breath. She was a quiet girl in my English class–one of the few people who’d never joined in when Victoria made fun of me. Her face was pale, worried.

“Elara.” Her voice was low, urgent. “Have you checked Twitter?”

“No. Why?” But I already knew. The way everyone was staring. The whispers that stopped when I got close.

She thrust her phone at me. “It’s everywhere.”

I stared at the screen. My hands started shaking before I even read

the words.

Trending:

#VaneHomewrecker

#SloaneKennedyDefense

#ArtistBetrayal

C

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The blood drained from my face. I clicked on the first hashtag with

numb fingers.

The top post had over 50,000 retweets.

@SloaneKennedyFanClub (157K followers):

EXPOSED: The truth about the girl trying to destroy Sloane

Kennedy’s reputation. Weeks ago, someone caught her STALKING

Julian Vane to Boston (see photos). Now she’s been caught in a motel

with another guy. This is the person accusing OUR Sloane of being

fake? Disgusting.

Everyone tag @St Valerius Academy and demand they expel this

morally bankrupt student. #JusticeForSloane #Protect Women #Truth

Attached were two photos. One: me in the lobby of the Boston hotel,

blurry but recognizable. Two: the Bronx motel, the pink neon sign glowing in the background.

My vision blurred. I blinked hard, trying to focus on the comments

below.

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