Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 63

Elara

The dressing room was maybe ten square meters. Full–length mirror

on one wall, velvet bench beneath it. Three dresses hung from a

polished brass rack like bait in a steel trap.

Black off–shoulder. Deep blue halter. Wine–red one–shoulder.

Each one easily worth several thousand dollars. Each one perfectly

tailored. Each one a weapon.

“Take your time,” Tristan had said, his smile sliding off his face as he

closed the door. “I’ll be right outside.”

I locked it. My fingers moved fast.

The black dress first. I checked the label–size four, my exact

measurements–then ran my hands along the back. There. A single

silk ribbon, delicate as spiderweb, holding the entire bodice together.

No reinforcement. No safety stitching. One good yank and the whole

thing would collapse.

The blue halter had hidden snaps at the straps, loose enough to pop

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under pressure.

The wine dress had shoulder straps with cut–and–resewn seams.

Deliberate sabotage disguised as couture.

My vision blurred. I felt like I was back at a banquet in my previous

life, standing on a stage in front of three hundred people. Victoria’s

hand on my shoulder, feigning a hug. The sharp tug. Fabric sliding.

Laughter exploding like broken glass. Camera flashes turning my

humiliation into evidence, into entertainment, into proof that I

deserved every ounce of their contempt.

I pressed my palms against the mirror. Breathed.

Not this time.

I chose the black dress–the most obvious trap. If they expected it to

fail and it didn’t, the shock would be mine to weaponize.

From my bag, I pulled out the small sewing kit I always carried.

Artists learn to repair torn canvases; the principle’s the same. Black

thread. Three reinforcement stitches along the ribbon’s base, hidden

where the fabric folded. A sailor’s knot at the anchor point, tight

enough to survive a hurricane,

I slipped into the dress. It fit like a second skin, the neckline framing

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my collarbones, the skirt hugging my legs. The ribbon at my back

looked fragile in the mirror’s reflection–a perfect lure.

I smiled at my own image.

“Let’s see who breaks tonight.”

The frosted glass door swung open. Thirty heads turned.

I kept my chin level, my stride unhurried. The dress caught the light

with every step, black silk whispering against my thighs. My hair fell

loose over one shoulder, deliberately obscuring the ribbon–not

enough to hide it, just enough to make them lean in.

Someone whistled. Low. Appreciative.

“Damn, Vance.”

I scanned the room, looking for threats, marking exits-

And then my eyes found Julian.

He stood by the bar, whiskey glass frozen halfway to his lips. His

conversation with the cluster of young executives had died mid-

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sentence. He was staring at me.

Just… staring.

His expression wasn’t the usual mask of controlled indifference. For a

moment–maybe two seconds, maybe less–something cracked

through. His eyes widened slightly. His lips parted. The hand holding

the whiskey lowered slowly, as if he’d forgotten it existed.

He looked at me the way someone looks at a painting in a museum.

The kind you’re not supposed to touch but can’t stop wanting to.

My breath caught.

Then Sloane appeared at his elbow, champagne–colored gown shimmering, and the moment shattered. She followed his gaze, saw me, and her smile turned sharp. She slipped her hand through his arm

possessively, leaning into him.

Julian blinked. The crack in his expression sealed shut. The mask slid

back into place.

Victoria’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Elara! You look stunning.

Come, let’s toast. Welcome to our little reunion.”

Her tone was honey laced with arsenic.

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She moved toward me, champagne flute extended like a peace

offering. Behind her, Sloane glided closer, assessing me with those

cool, calculating eyes.

“That’s a beautiful choice,” Sloane said, tilting her head. “Though–be

careful. I’d hate for anything to… slip.”

Her voice was silk over steel. Concern weaponized.

Tristan appeared at my other side, pressing a champagne flute into

my hand. “A toast,” he announced, loud enough for the room. “To new

beginnings. To leaving the past where it belongs.”

Everyone raised their glasses. Crystal clinked. Laughter rippled.

I lifted mine but didn’t drink. Just held it, watched them over the rim.

Victoria moved closer. Too close. Her perfume–jasmine and

something cloying–wrapped around me like smoke. Behind her,

Madison held up her phone, camera pointed directly at my back.

The angles were perfect. The lighting was perfect.

This was choreographed.

My pulse stayed steady. I counted exits–main door, service entrance

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visible through the kitchen window, second–floor balcony if things

got desperate. My evening clutch sat on a nearby chair–no utility

knife tonight, not in a haute couture gown with no pockets. Just my

phone, set to record audio with one tap.

But I didn’t need a knife.

I had something better.

“To Elara,” Victoria said, smile wide and empty. “May she finally learn

her place.”

Glasses rose again.

And then she stumbled.

It happened fast. Victoria’s heel caught–or pretended to catch–on the carpet edge. Her body pitched forward. Her hand landed on my

shoulder, steadying herself.

Her other hand shot toward my back.

I felt her fingers close around the ribbon. The sharp, vicious pull.

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