Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 7

Elara

Anna’s gaze flicked to my face, noting the red–rimmed eyes. The

corner of her mouth twitched–not quite a smirk, but close.

I kept my expression neutral. “I’ll be there.”

When the door closed, I stood and walked to the closet. In my

previous life, I’d agonized over this moment, choosing a cream

cashmere sweater and a pleated skirt because I thought Julian liked

that preppy, innocent look. I’d sprayed on Marc Jacobs Daisy–three

months‘ allowance wasted on a perfume I thought would make him

notice me.

Today, I pulled on a plain gray knit sweater and black pants. No

perfume. No jewelry except my father’s watch on a chain around my

neck.

I braided my hair back, away from my face. Splashed cold water on my

eyes to reduce the puffiness. Looked at myself one last time in the

mirror.

In my previous timeline, the girl staring back had been hopeful.

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Desperate. Willing to debase herself for scraps of attention.

The woman I saw now was a stranger wearing a teenager’s face.

“I’m sorry, Lily,” I thought, pressing my hand to my flat stomach. “I’m

sorry I can’t give you life again. But I can give us both freedom.”

Blackwood Estate’s study smelled of Cuban cigars and old leather-

the scent of masculine power passed down through five generations.

Dark oak paneling. Portraits of stern–faced Vane patriarchs glaring

from gilded frames. The fireplace crackling with split logs that cost

more than most people’s monthly rent.

Mr. Vane Senior sat behind his Louis XIV desk, the morning light

catching the milky film over his left eye. He looked every inch the

patriarch: three–piece suit perfectly pressed, gold watch chain

glinting, liver–spotted hands folded atop a stack of contracts.

Julian stood by the floor–to–ceiling windows, backlit by October sun.

Charcoal three–piece suit. Cartier cufflinks. His posture was perfect-

shoulders back, spine straight, every inch the Wall Street prince

groomed to inherit an empire.

He glanced at me when I entered. Just a flick of those cold gray–blue

eyes. Assessing. Dismissive.

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That look–I’d spent a year trying to make it warmer. Softer. Aimed at

me with something other than indifference.

Now it just made me tired.

“Elara.” Mr. Vane Senior’s voice was gravelly, authoritative. “Sit.”

I did, perching on the edge of a wing–back chair. Hands folded in my

lap. Spine straight. The posture of someone who knew they were

being evaluated.

“Julian is flying to Boston tomorrow for the Kennedy family’s

business gala,” the old man announced without preamble. “Real

estate and media elite. Very important connections. I’d like you to

accompany him.”

My heart stopped.

This was it. The moment. The fork in the road where my previous life

had taken the path to destruction.

“You’d be helping with the social aspects,” Mr. Vane continued, as if

I’d already agreed. “Entertaining the wives and daughters. It’s good

exposure for you. You should see how these events work.”

In my previous timeline, I’d heard those words as: Julian wants you

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there. This is your chance to be part of his world.

Now I heard the truth: You’re useful for managing the women we don’t care about. Know your place.

Julian’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and cold. “Grandfather, there’s no need to force her. She wouldn’t be comfortable at that level

Ex of event.”

His tone said: She doesn’t belong.

The old man frowned. “Nonsense. Elara is family. Her SAT scores are excellent–1520, I hear. Top five percent at St. Valerius. She reflects

well on us.”

“The Kennedy gala isn’t an academic conference,” Julian said, turning

to face me fully now. His expression was arctic. “The women there

will discuss charity auctions, art investments, European vacations. Can you contribute to those conversations, Elara?”

He paused, letting the question hang.

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