Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 61

St. Valerius Academy appeared through the morning haze like

something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on the day.

Spires, manicured lawns, wrought–iron gates that whispered

exclusivity with every creak.

I walked through those gates at 7:45 AM, and the first thing I noticed

was the silence.

Not the usual hum of gossip and laughter. Not the sharp whispers

that had followed me for days. Just… quiet.

Students clustered near the main entrance scattered as I approached, putting at least ten feet between us. A group of sophomore girls stopped mid–conversation, their eyes flicking to me before they turned away, suddenly fascinated by their phones.

By the announcement board, two senior boys I’d never spoken to abruptly ended their discussion and walked off in opposite directions.

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It was like I’d become radioactive.

Not because they respected me. Because they feared the Vane name.

Vane Group’s statement had bought me this–a buffer zone of

enforced politeness. They weren’t afraid of me. They were afraid of

crossing Julian.

Emily appeared near my locker, hovering awkwardly. “Hey, Elara… you

okay?”

Her voice was tight. Careful. Like she was talking to a bomb.

“I’m fine.” I opened my locker, ignoring the way her eyes darted

around, checking who might be watching us talk.

“That’s… that’s good.” She shifted her weight. “I just wanted to say–1

mean, if you need anything-”

“I’m fine,” I repeated.

She bit her lip. “Okay. Well. Take care.”

And then she was gone, practically speed–walking down the hall.

I stood there for a moment, staring into my locker. At the neatly

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stacked textbooks, the spare sweater, the emergency granola bars.

This is better, I told myself. No one bothering me means I can focus

on Founders‘ Day. It’s better to be alone than to be targeted.

I grabbed my calculus book and headed to class..

The morning passed in a blur of avoidance and whispers.

In calculus, the teacher called on me to solve a derivatives problem. I

answered correctly, my voice steady. But when I sat down, nobody

reacted. No murmurs of approval or resentment, no exchanged

glances.

Just silence,

In English, the teacher assigned group work, I ended up working

alone while everyone else paired off, their eyes sliding past me like I

was furniture.

By lunch, my jaw ached from clenching it.

I skipped the cafeteria entirely and headed to the art building’s

outdoor terrace–a small courtyard with a few benches, usually

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deserted this time of year. The October wind was sharp, but I

preferred cold over crowds.

I sat on a bench tucked behind a dying oak tree, unwrapped the

turkey sandwich Mamá had packed, and pulled out my phone. Ms.

Rivera had emailed me the technical requirements for Founders‘ Day:

canvas size, framing options, lighting considerations.

I was halfway through the document when I heard footsteps.

Expensive footsteps. The kind that came with Italian leather shoes.

I looked up.

Tristan stood there, backlit by the autumn sun, looking like he’d

stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Beige cashmere sweater. Khaki

slacks. Gold–rimmed glasses catching the light just so. In one hand,

he held a Starbucks cup. In the other, a paper bag from that

overpriced macaron place on Madison Avenue.

He smiled. Warm. Apologetic. Completely, utterly fake.

“Elara,” he said, sitting down across from me without asking. “I know

you probably don’t want to see me.”

I said nothing. Just watched him set the coffee and macarons on the

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bench between us.

“But I had to apologize.” His voice was soft, earnest. “What I did the

other day–grabbing you like that, saying those things–it was

inexcusable. I’ve been reflecting, and I realize I was completely out of

line.”

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