Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 59

Chapter 59

Elara

I turned to look at him. His profile was sharp in the dimming light,

jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“What do you want?” I asked quietly. “How am I supposed to repay

you?”

He shifted in his seat, finally meeting my gaze. “Come back to

Blackwood.”

My stomach dropped. “No.”

“That’s the price.” His voice was flat. Final.

I shook my head. “Anything else.”

“There is nothing else.” He leaned closer, and I could see the tension

in his shoulders, the controlled fury simmering beneath his composed

exterior. “You’re being irrational. You need stability. Protection. A

place where-”

“Anything but that,” I interrupted, my voice steady despite the racing

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of my heart. “I’ll owe you a favor. I’ll–I’ll help with whatever you

need. Just not Blackwood.”

Julian stared at me for a long moment. Something flickered in his

eyes–frustration, perhaps confusion. Maybe even hurt, though that

seemed impossible.

Then his expression went cold.

“Atlas.” His voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Stop the car.‘

I blinked. “What?”

“Stop the car,” Julian repeated.

Atlas glanced in the rearview mirror, uncertainty crossing his face.

But he obeyed, pulling over to the curb.

We were somewhere between Midtown and the Bronx. The

neighborhood was in transition–half–renovated brownstones stood

beside shuttered bodegas and chain–link fences. Street vendors were packing up their carts. A group of teenagers lounged on a stoop,

music blasting from a portable speaker.

Not exactly dangerous. But not safe either.

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Julian turned to me, his face an emotionless mask. “Get out.”

My breath caught. “You can’t be serious.”

“Get out.” His tone was ice. “Since you’re so determined to be

‘independent,‘ since you’d rather owe me anything except what I’m

actually asking for–go ahead. It doesn’t matter to me where you go.”

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t process what was happening.

Then anger flared in my chest, hot and sharp.

I grabbed my backpack, fingers gripping the strap hard enough to

hurt. “You know what, Julian?” I met his eyes, refusing to look away. “I

don’t regret this. Not one bit.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

I pushed open the door. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of

exhaust and frying food from a nearby takeout joint. The city noise

hit me–traffic, distant sirens, someone shouting.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, my boots hitting the pavement with

a dull thud.

Julian still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked at me. Just stared straight

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ahead, his hands clenched on his knees.

I was about to close the door when he spoke, his voice low and bitter.

“Don’t think I did this for you. I couldn’t care less whether you come

back or not.”

I paused, one hand on the door frame. For a second, I almost laughed.

Almost.

“I know,” I said softly. “That’s the problem.”

I slammed the door shut.

The Rolls–Royce pulled away immediately, tires hissing on the wet

pavement. Within seconds, it had disappeared into the evening traffic, taillights swallowed by the stream of cars and buses.

I stood there on the curb, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching

it vanish.

Around me, the city moved. A woman pushed a shopping cart

overflowing with plastic bags. Two kids on bikes swerved past,

laughing and shouting. A bus rumbled by, belching exhaust.

I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling slightly. Opened the

rideshare app. Typed in the Iron District address. Going back to

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school at that point, classes would likely have ended anyway, so I

might as well have gone straight home.

Estimated arrival: 15 minutes.

I leaned against a streetlight and waited, arms wrapped around

myself against the chill.

My wrist throbbed where Julian had grabbed me earlier. My head

ached. Everything ached.

But beneath the exhaustion and the pain, something else stirred.

A strange, fragile sense of lightness.

Even here–abandoned on a street corner, with bruises on my skin

and uncertainty stretching out before me–I was free.

No one watching. No one controlling. No one telling me who I had to

be or what I owed them.

The rideshare arrived. A dented Honda with a faded Puerto Rican flag air freshener hanging from the mirror.

I climbed in and gave the driver a tired smile. “Thanks for coming.”

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“No problem, mija.” He glanced at me in the rearview. “Rough day?”

“Something like that.”

He didn’t press, just turned up the radio–some salsa station–and

pulled back into traffic.

I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me.

By the time I reached the apartment, it was after five. The Iron District’s streetlights had flickered on, casting pools of yellow light across graffiti–covered walls and rusted fire escapes.

I paid the driver with cash and climbed the three flights of stairs to

our floor.

Inside, the apartment was warm and smelled like garlic and tomatoes. Maria stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. When she heard

the door, she turned.

Her eyes went wide. Then her face crumpled.

“Dios mío, Elara. What happened? Did he did they-”

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“I’m fine, Mamá.” I dropped my backpack by the door and kicked off

my boots. I moved past her into the kitchen, suddenly starving. “Is

there food?”

She gestured helplessly at the stove. “I made pasta.”

I ladled sauce and noodles into a bowl, the heat of it warming my cold

fingers.

When Yuki and Diego came home an hour later, they took one look at

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