Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Elara

The auditorium erupted into chaos. Camera flashes exploded like fireworks. Students raised phones, recording everything. Reporters

surged toward the stage, shouting questions that collided into a wall

of noise.

Sloane stood frozen center stage, her face drained of all color. Her

mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her body swayed slightly, as if

the ground beneath her had turned to water.

Julian moved like a blade cutting through the crowd. He crossed the

stage in three strides and positioned himself in front of her, his body

blocking the cameras and microphones. His hand found her shoulder,

steadying her.

“Deep breath,” he said, voice low but firm. “Look at me. Everything

will be fine.”

Sloane’s fingers clutched his arm, nails digging into the fabric of his

suit. Tears welled in her eyes, then spilled over. “Julian… I don’t

know… those sketches…”

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Her voice broke. Perfect timing. Perfect vulnerability.

Julian turned to face the crowd, his expression shifting from

protective to authoritative in an instant. He stepped to the

microphone, voice cutting through the noise with surgical precision.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Please remain calm.”

The crowd quieted, responding to the command in his tone.

“The slides you just saw were displayed without authorization. This

appears to be a technical malfunction.” His gaze swept the

auditorium with cold authority. “Regarding any questions about Ms.

Kennedy’s work, the Vane family and Kennedy family will form a joint

investigation committee. We will provide an official response within

forty–eight hours. Until then, I ask that you refrain from spreading

unverified information.”

His eyes flicked toward the control booth. When they landed on me,

something flickered in their depths–anger, disappointment,

something darker I couldn’t name. Then his jaw clenched and he

looked away.

He removed his charcoal suit jacket and draped it over Sloane’s shoulders with practiced gentleness, the gesture intimate and protective. She leaned into him, resting her head against his

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shoulder, looking fragile and wounded.

They moved toward the backstage exit. Julian’s arm encircled her

waist, supporting her weight as if she might collapse without him.

They passed the control booth. Julian slowed for less than a second-

not stopping, not looking at me, but his jaw tightened and his free

hand clenched into a fist.

I stood alone at the control panel, surrounded by the chaos I’d

created. Students pointed and whispered. A security guard

approached, phone pressed to his ear.

Kevin, the tech student, burst through the side door. “What

happened?! I was only gone a few minutes!”

I didn’t answer. I was watching Julian and Sloane disappear through

the backstage door–his jacket wrapped around her narrow shoulders,

his body curved protectively over hers.”

The contrast burned into my retinas: Sloane, rescued and shielded.

Me, standing alone in a room full of people who wanted me gone.

By 10:00 PM, #Sloane Plagiarism had hit number one on Twitter.

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Instagram exploded with over 500,000 posts. Every major art

publication was running the story: “Rising Star Accused of Theft.”

“Kennedy Family Scandal.” “Who Is E.C.?”

I sat on my mattress in the Iron District garage, laptop balanced on

my knees. Yuki and Diego hovered nearby, concern written across

their faces.

“Elara, are you okay?” Yuki asked softly.

I nodded without looking up. “I need to be alone for a bit.”

They exchanged glances but retreated to their corners of the

apartment.

I pulled up everything I could find on Mrs. Castellano: records from

the Bronx Arts Community, a few small exhibition mentions, her

obituary from a local paper in 2021. I documented it all–her studio

address, the auction records where her work had been sold off

cheaply after her death.

Tomorrow I would present this to the school, to the media. Tomorrow

I would-

At 11:00 PM, the tide began to turn.

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A prominent art blogger with 500,000 followers posted: “Wait–has

anyone considered E.C. might be a pseudonym? Many artists use fake

names on their preliminary sketches to protect their privacy.”

Within minutes, several other verified accounts echoed the same

theory. The comment sections filled with “rational” voices, drowning

out the accusations.

At 1:00 AM, Sloane’s official Instagram posted a statement.

The photo showed her in a dimly lit studio, sitting before the

sketches of The Lonely Supper, her expression sorrowful and

vulnerable.

The caption read:

“I never wanted to reveal this secret. E.C. is an artistic alias I created

at fourteen–Elena Celeste–to protect my privacy and creative space.

This painting began when I was fifteen, inspired by Julian, ‘Per la

memoria di J‘ means ‘For the memory of Julian‘–it commemorates the

beautiful beginning of our story, I don’t know how my private

sketches were stolen and leaked, but I choose to forgive the person

who questioned me. Perhaps she was simply misled. Art should bring

beauty, not harm. #LoveAndArt #ForgivenessIsStrength”

The post hit one million likes within an hour. The comments

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overflowed with support:

“I knew it was a misunderstanding.”

“Sloane is too kind.”

“That girl who accused her is disgusting.”

I tried to comment, to explain, to show more evidence. But my words

drowned in a sea of attacks.

“You’re the liar, aren’t you?”

“Jealousy is so ugly.”

“Poor people can’t stand to see others succeed.”

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone.

The email arrived at 7:30 AM:

“Ms. Vance, please report to the Board Conference Room at 9:00 AM

to address inappropriate conduct during yesterday’s exhibition.

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Attendance is mandatory.”

I arrived ten minutes early. A line of men in expensive suits stood

outside the conference room–lawyers, I realized. My stomach

dropped.

Inside, the setup was designed to intimidate.

At the head table: Dr. Pemberton, expressionless. Three board

members, including Mr. Harrington, an older man with silver hair and

gold–rimmed glasses.

At the left table: Sloane’s legal team. The lead attorney, Marcus

Sterling, was a man in his forties with sharp features and iron–gray

hair. Three junior lawyers flanked him, tablets and documents spread

before them.

At the right side: Sloane herself, wearing a simple beige sweater, no

makeup, eyes slightly red. The picture of wounded innocence.

At the back, by the window: Julian. Arms crossed, one leg crossed over

the other, reviewing documents. His presence dominated the room

without a word.

I was directed to a single chair facing the entire table.

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Chapter 74

“Please sit, Ms. Vance,” Mr. Harrington said.

I sat, spine straight, hands on my knees.

Sterling spoke first, voice professionally cold. “Ms. Vance, we

represent Ms. Kennedy in lodging a formal complaint against your

actions yesterday. You accessed technical equipment without

authorization, displayed unverified materials, and engaged in

malicious defamation that has severely damaged my client’s

reputation and mental health.”

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