Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 51

Chapter 51

Elara

I handed the phone back. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said. My voice came out flat. Mechanical.

Emily bit her lip. Her eyes were damp. “Are you… are you okay?”

I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was scared for me. Actually

scared.

“I’m fine,” I said. The lie tasted bitter. “At least I’m not trapped in that

house anymore.”

Emily opened her mouth, then closed it. She squeezed my arm once,

quickly, before disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there for a moment, surrounded by staring students and

whispered insults.

Then I started walking toward the administrative building.

One foot in front of the other.

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Behind me, the whispers rose:

“She still has the nerve to show her face?”

“I heard the Vane family kicked her out. She’s living in some slum

now.”

“Good. She deserves it.”

My face burned. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. But I kept

walking.

I wouldn’t run. Not anymore.

The hallway near the main office was empty–most students were still

outside, dissecting my life on their phones. My footsteps echoed on

the marble floor. Each step felt heavy now, like I was walking through

water.

I stopped at the bulletin board outside Dr. Pemberton’s office. I

needed a moment. Just one moment to steady myself before facing

whatever was waiting inside.

The digital display screen caught my eye. Usually it showed lunch

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menus and club meeting times.

Today, it showed something different.

[ST. VALERIUS ACADEMY

ANNUAL FOUNDERS‘ DAY CELEBRATION

October 30th, 7:00 PM

Great Hall

SPECIAL GUESTS:

Ms. Sloane Kennedy – Renowned Contemporary Artist

Mr. Julian Vane CEO, Vane Group

—

PROGRAM:

• Artist Talk: “From St. Valerius to the Chelsea Galleries: My Journey”

(Ms. Kennedy)

Live Portfolio Review: Representatives from RISD, Parsons, and

Pratt will evaluate senior student work

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• Selected pieces will be featured in the school’s spring exhibition

and recommended for top art programs

Portfolio submission deadline: October 29]

I read it once. Then again. The words blurred together.

Sloane Kennedy.

Julian Vane.

One week from today.

My breath caught in my throat. My hands went cold.

I knew this date. I remembered this event.

Last time–in my previous life–I’d been so excited. So hopeful.

I’d spent six months on a painting called “Fractured Mirror.” A self-

portrait done in shattered reflections. Each shard showing a different

version of myself–the girl who smiled at dinner, the girl who cried alone at night, the girl who painted until her fingers bled.

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It was the best work I’d ever done. The truest thing I’d ever created.

I remember standing in the art storage room on October 29th,

carefully wrapping it in protective cloth. My hands had shaken with

nerves and excitement. Tomorrow, college representatives would see

1. it. Tomorrow, they’d know I was more than just the Vane family’s

charity case.

I’d locked the storage room. Double–checked the lock. Walked away

feeling lighter than I had in months.

The next morning, I’d arrived early. My stomach had been full of

butterflies. I’d barely slept.

I remember unlocking the storage room door. The smell had hit me

first–sharp, chemical. Turpentine.

The painting was destroyed. Completely destroyed. Someone had

poured an entire bottle of turpentine over it. The oil paints had

dissolved, running together into a muddy mess. The canvas was

warped, buckling.

I’d sunk to my knees on the floor. Stared at six months of work

reduced to garbage. My hands had touched the ruined canvas, come

away sticky with dissolved paint.

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I remember thinking: Who would do this?

But I already knew. Deep down, I knew.

Dr. Pemberton had been sympathetic but firm. “These things happen,

Miss Vance. Proper storage is the student’s responsibility. I’m sorry,

but there’s nothing we can do.”

No investigation. No consequences.

Just my chance, gone.

That afternoon, I’d been backstage during the celebration. Helping

the younger students hang their work. Trying not to cry. Trying to

smile and act like everything was fine.

That’s when I’d seen Sloane’s assistant–a thin man with nervous

hands–making last–minute adjustments to one of her paintings.

I’d stopped walking. Stared.

The brushwork. The way the light fell across the subject’s face. The layering technique, building up translucent glazes. The texture in the

background.

It was my style. My technique. Everything I’d taught myself by

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studying the old masters, by spending hours in the Met, by painting

until my back ached.

All of it, in a painting with Sloane Kennedy’s signature in the corner.

I’d stood there, frozen, while students rushed past me. While

everyone applauded Sloane’s “talent.” While the college reps praised

her “unique vision.”

Three months later, that painting sold at a Chelsea gallery auction for

$500,000.

The memory of it–standing backstage, invisible, while Sloane took

credit for my work–made my chest tighten even now.

I came back to myself slowly. My heart was pounding. My hands were

pressed flat against the bulletin board, fingers spread wide.

Students were trickling into the building for first period. Someone bumped my shoulder, muttered an apology.

I didn’t move.

One week. Sloane would be here in one week. Julian too. They’d stand

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on that stage together, the perfect couple, while college

representatives decided which students had futures worth investing

1. in.

Last time, I’d lost everything that day.

This time…

My jaw clenched. My fingernails dug into the cork board.

This time, I would paint something she couldn’t steal. Something

only I could create. Something so undeniably mine that when those

college representatives saw it, they’d know. They’d know the real

artist wasn’t Sloane Kennedy.

It was me. It had always been me.

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