Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 56

Chapter 56

Mamá brought out a plate of leftover fried rice and scrambled eggs. I

picked up my chopsticks and tried to eat, but my stomach was in

knots.

My phone–still turned off–sat beside my plate like a bomb waiting

to detonate.

I couldn’t avoid it forever.

I turned it back on.

The notifications were overwhelming. Hundreds of Instagram

comments, dozens of Twitter mentions, text messages from numbers

I didn’t recognize.

But the overall tone had shifted. People were apologizing. Deleting

their hateful posts. Some were even defending me now, calling out

the original accusers for spreading lies.

The Vane Group’s legal threat had worked.

I should have felt relieved. Vindicated, even.

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Instead, I felt… trapped.

Julian had swooped in and “fixed” the problem. He’d used his family’s

power and money to make the harassment stop. And now–whether I

wanted it or not–I owed him.

Mamá sat down across from me. “So? What happened? Is it good

news?”

I looked up at her. Her face was hopeful, almost eager.

“Julian cleared my name,” I said flatly. “He issued a statement saying

the rumors were false.”

Her eyes lit up. “See?! I knew he still cares about you! Mija, this is

your chance! You should thank him, maybe-”

“No, Mamá.” My voice was calm. Cold. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“But he helped you! How can you—”

“I didn’t ask for his help.” I set down my chopsticks. “He did this on

his own. And I’m not going to crawl back just because of this.”

Mama’s face crumpled. “Elara, please. Just think about it. If you

apologize, if you–”

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“I’m done apologizing.” I stood up, chair scraping against the floor.

“I’m done playing by their rules.”

I walked to my tiny room and closed the door.

Through the thin wall, I could hear Mamá crying.

The afternoon dragged. I tried to focus on homework–calculus

problems, SAT vocabulary, college essay revisions–but my mind kept

circling back to Julian’s statement.

Why now?

He could have issued that statement days ago, when the rumors first

started. Instead, he’d let me twist in the wind. Let me face the

harassment, the bullying, the public humiliation.

And only now–after I’d left Blackwood, after I’d made it clear I was

done with him–only now did he step in.

It wasn’t protection.

It was control.

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He wanted to remind me that I couldn’t escape. That even when I ran,

even when I built a new life in the Bronx, he could still reach me. Still

shape my reality with a single statement.

My hands curled into fists.

I grabbed my phone and started typing a message:

I didn’t ask for your help. Don’t do this again.

My finger hovered over the send button.

Then I deleted the message.

No. Responding would give him what he wanted–acknowledgment that his actions affected me. Proof that I was still thinking about him.

I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

By 3:30, I was back at St. Valerius for the final period: Art History

with Ms. Rivera,

The atmosphere in the classroom was strange. Awkward. Students who’d ignored me all morning now shot me curious glances. Some

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looked guilty. Others just looked confused, like they weren’t sure how

to act now that the narrative had flipped.

Ms. Rivera greeted me with a small, knowing smile. “Elara. Glad you’re

here.”

I nodded and took my seat by the window.

She launched into announcements about Founders‘ Day–the student

exhibition, the guest speakers, the importance of submitting

portfolio–quality work. I took notes mechanically, my mind only half-

engaged.

When the bell finally rang, I packed up quickly. I needed to get out of

here. Get home. Lock myself in my room and—

“Miss Vance.”

I froze.

Atlas was standing in the doorway. Behind him, through the

classroom windows, I could see a black Rolls–Royce Phantom parked

at the curb. Engine running.

No.

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“Miss Vance,” Atlas repeated, his tone polite but firm. “Mr. Vane

requests your presence.”

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