Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 72

Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second …

Chapter 72

Elara

The auditorium lights dimmed at seven o’clock sharp.

I sat in the back row, corner seat near the fire exit–the same strategic

positioning I’d learned from a lifetime of making myself invisible.

The stage had been transformed into a miniature gallery: white

drapes, spotlights, a single easel at center stage draped in black

velvet. The seats were packed. Students, parents, alumni, board

members. I recognized several journalists from ArtForum and The

New York Times in the third row, phones already recording.

My fingers drummed against my thigh. Nervous energy. I didn’t know

what to expect tonight–only that Sloane would unveil something, and Julian would be by her side. The familiar ache settled in my chest,

the one I couldn’t seem to shake no matter how many times I told

myself to let go.

The side doors opened.

Julian entered first, and the auditorium erupted. Girls screamed.

Cameras flashed. He wore a charcoal three–piece suit, silver cufflinks

catching the light as he raised one hand in acknowledgment. Then Sloane appeared beside him, her fingers threading through his with

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delicate urgency–like she needed the contact to ground herself.

She wore an ivory Dior dress that hugged her waist before flaring into

a tea–length sk. A strand of pearls lay against her collarbone. Her smile was radiant, practiced, perfect–but I caught the way her grip

tightened on Julian’s arm, the subtle lean of her body toward his as

they walked.

“She’s nervous,” I realized. “She needs him.”

They walked to the center of the stage, and I watched Julian’s face

soften in a way it never did around me. His thumb traced small circles

on the back of her hand. Protective. Possessive. Proud. When she

stumbled slightly on the bottom step–her heel catching–he steadied

her instantly, his other hand moving to her waist with practiced ease.

She looked up at him. Smiled. Whispered something I couldn’t hear

from this distance.

He smiled back. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

My throat tightened. My hands clenched in my lap until my nails bit into my palms.

“He looks at her like she’s already his wife. Like she’s the only person in this room who matters.”

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The thought tasted like copper and ash, I forced myself to look away, to breathe through the sharp ache blooming behind my ribs.

You knew I

‘ve always known this.”

But knowing didn’t make it hurt less,

Julian stepped to the microphone. His voice filled the auditorium

low, magnetic, the kind of voice that made investors hand over

millions. Thank you all for coming tonight. It’s my honor to

introduce an extraordinary artist, and a pride of St. Valerius Academy

Sloane Kennedy,”

He turned toward her, and something in his expression shifted.

Gentler. Almost vulnerable. His eyes swept the audience briefly–a

habitual scan–and for half a second, they landed on me.

I froze.

His gaze sharpened. Held. Then Sloane touched his arm, drawing his

attention back, and the moment shattered.

“Of course,” The bitterness rose like bile. She calls, and he comes

running,”

Julian continued, his focus entirely on Sloane now. “Sloane is

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remarkable not only for her talent, but for her dedication. At sixteen,

she was accepted early admission to Columbia University’s Art

History program. She’s the youngest artist to have a solo exhibition at

the Marlborough Gallery. Tonight, she’ll share her creative journey

and her latest work.”

He looked at her like she’d hung the moon. Like every word he spoke

was a love letter disguised as an introduction.

Sloane’s eyes glistened. She pressed one hand to her chest–a gesture

of humility–and mouthed thank you to him before stepping forward.

Applause thundered through the auditorium. She took the

microphone, but not before glancing back at Julian one more time,

seeking reassurance. He nodded. Smiled. Gave her the encouragement

she needed.

My chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise. I looked down at my

hands, willing the burning behind my eyes to stop.

“Thank you, Julian.” Her voice was clear, melodic, designed for TED

Talks and gallery openings. But I noticed the way her fingers trembled slightly on the microphone stand. “And thank you to my alma mater for this opportunity. Tonight, I want to share my artistic evolution–from the studios of St. Valerius to the galleries of

Chelsea.”

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The screen behind her lit up. A PowerPoint presentation began:

Sloane at various high–end events, her “paintings” displayed in sleek

gallery spaces, glowing reviews from art critics whose opinions could

launch care or destroy them.

She gestured to the screen, her movements graceful but just a little

too rehearsed. Every few sentences, her eyes darted to Julian standing

at the edge of the stage. Seeking approval. Checking if he was still

watching, still proud.

He was. Every time she looked, his expression was attentive,

supportive. Once, he even gave her a small nod of encouragement.

The knife in my chest twisted deeper.

On stage, Sloane was warming up to her narrative. “Art isn’t just

about technique–it’s about emotional truth. Every painting I create

comes from lived experience, from moments of raw vulnerability…”

Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, but I could see the pattern now:

speak a few lines, glance at Julian, draw strength from his presence, continue. She wasn’t just presenting to the audience. She was

performing for him.

And he was giving her exactly what she needed.

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My hands clenched in my lap. I looked down, focusing on my

breathing, trying to quell the acidic mixture of jealousy and grief

churning in my stomach.

This was who he chose. This was what love looked like to him.

Not me, desperate and raw and trying too hard. Her–polished,

dependent in all the right ways, needing him just enough to make

him feel necessary but not so much that she seemed weak.

I’d never learned that balance. Maybe that’s why I’d always failed.

“Tonight,” Sloane continued, “I want to share my most recent work. I

spent three months on this piece, exploring the intersection of

human isolation and resilience.”

She glanced at Julian one more time before clicking the remote. He

smiled at her–a private, intimate smile that made my stomach

clench.

The screen changed.

And my entire world stopped.

The painting filled the screen in high definition: a beam of light cutting through a dark interior, illuminating a worn wooden table. On

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the table sat a half–empty glass of red wine and an open book. The

light fell at a precise angle, catching the wine’s refraction through the

glass, the curved edges of yellowed pages.

I stared.

Blinked,

Stared again.

No.

That angle of light. The way the wine caught the refraction. The exact

curl of the book’s pages.

I knew this painting.

My hands went numb. My breath came short and shallow.

Mrs. Castellano,

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