Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 62

My fingers tightened on my phone.

“This is an act,” I thought. “Two days ago, he had his hands around my

throat, calling me garbage. Now he’s serving me coffee and

contrition.”

“What do you want, Tristan?”

He blinked, like my bluntness had caught him off guard. Then he

sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I want to

make it right. I know words aren’t enough, so…” He pulled out his

phone, showing me an email confirmation. “I booked a table at Bleu

Étoile tonight. Private dining room. Just you and me. A proper

apology.”

I stared at the screen. Bleu Étoile. Michelin two–star. Fifteen

thousand dollars to reserve the space.

“I’m not interested.”

“Elara-”

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“I said no.” I started to stand.

His hand shot out, not grabbing me, but blocking my path. “Please.

Just hear me out.”

I froze, eyes locked on his hand.

He pulled it back immediately, palms up in surrender. “I’m not trying

to control you. I just… Julian told me I was too harsh. Victoria and

Sloane both think we should try to move past this. Give each other a

chance to start over.”

He glanced around the courtyard. Three students had appeared near

the art building entrance, pretending to talk but clearly listening.

Tristan’s voice rose slightly. “After everything the family’s done for

you–the statement Vane Group released, Julian coming to school

personally–don’t you think refusing even a simple apology dinner

is… a little cold?”

There it is.

The trap.

He was painting me as ungrateful in front of witnesses. If I refused,

tomorrow’s gossip would be “Elara Vane rejects olive branch, proves

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she’s vindictive.” If I accepted, I’d be walking straight into whatever

he had planned.

I thought of the last life. The debutante ball. The dress with the hidden snaps, designed to fall apart on cue. Tristan had orchestrated that, too, all while wearing this same expression of brotherly concern.

My pulse slowed. Steadied. If the trap was inevitable, then I walked in

with my eyes open.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “What time?”

Relief flashed across his face, quickly hidden. “Seven PM. I’ll text you

the address.”

‘I’ll be there.”

He stood, smile widening. “Thank you, Elara. This really means a lot.”

I watched him walk away, his gait easy and confident.

The three students near the building scattered as he passed.

I sat back down, sandwich forgotten, and opened a new note on my

phone.

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Chapter 62

[Prep list:

1. Observe exits and cameras
2. No food or drink
3. Record everything
4. Utility knife in coat pocket]

My hands didn’t shake as I typed.

I didn’t go home after school.

Instead, I took the subway straight to Tribeca, arriving two hours

early. I needed to see the venue in daylight, map the exits,

understand the terrain.

The restaurant was tucked between a boutique hotel and an art

gallery–discreet, expensive, the kind of place where celebrities went

to avoid paparazzi. Heavy velvet curtains in the windows. A doorman

in a tailored suit.

I walked past it twice, memorizing details.

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One main entrance. A service door in the alley. Windows on the

second floor.

At five–thirty, I ducked into a Duane Reade and bought a bottle of

water and a pack of gum. Then I found a bench in a nearby park and

waited, watching the sky turn from blue to orange to deep purple.

My phone buzzed.

“Tristan: Private room is ready. See you at 7!”

I didn’t reply.

At 6:50, I stood, brushed off my jeans, and started walking.

The utility knife was a small, reassuring weight in my coat pocket. My

phone was set to auto–record with one tap. In my other pocket, I’d

tucked a tiny vial of ipecac syrup–just in case someone tried the

drugging trick again.

I will not be a victim tonight.

I will not be a pawn.

The restaurant’s door swung open as I approached. Warm light spilled

out onto the sidewalk, carrying the scent of expensive wine and

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seared foie gras.

I stepped inside.

The hostess smiled. “Ms. Vance? Mr. Vane is expecting you. Right this

way.”

She led me past the main dining room–white tablecloths, crystal

chandeliers, couples murmuring over tasting menus–and down a

hallway lined with black–and–white photographs of Old New York.

At the end of the hall was a frosted glass door.

She pushed it open.

The first thing I saw was the crowd.

Thirty people, maybe more. Students from St. Valerius, some from

other private schools I vaguely recognized. All dressed like they were

attending a society wedding–cocktail dresses, tailored suits,

champagne flutes glittering under pendant lights.

This wasn’t a private apology dinner.

This was a party.

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And I was the entertainment.

Victoria stood near the center, white satin dress catching the light,

surrounded by her usual entourage. When she saw me, her lips curved

into a smile sharp enough to cut.

Sloane sat on a velvet sofa in the corner, champagne–colored gown

pooling around her like liquid gold. She glanced at me once–cool,

assessing–then returned to her conversation.

And Julian.

He stood by the bar, three–piece suit immaculate, whiskey in hand.

Talking to a cluster of young men in expensive watches and political-

dynasty surnames.

When I walked in, his eyes found mine.

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