Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 75

Chapter 75

Elara

He slid a document across the table. “This is a temporary restraining

order requiring you to immediately cease all defamatory behavior,

including but not limited to spreading false information on social

media, in public, or in private.”

I took a breath. “Everything I showed was real. The signature E.C., the

date from 2015, the Italian notations, the handwritten notes on the

back–those are facts.”

Sterling’s smile was cold. “Facts? Ms. Kennedy has publicly explained

that E.C. is her pseudonym, Elena Celeste.”

“But those sketches are dated 2015. Sloane was only fifteen then. How

could she create a painting dedicated to ‘Julian‘ when you weren’t

even together yet?”

Brief silence.

Sloane spoke, voice trembling. “Elara… I know this is hard to believe, but those really are my works. I was fourteen when I attended a

summer art program in Florence. That’s where I first met Julian. I fell

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in love at first sight. The painting began then, but I only recently

completed it for this lecture–it’s been a long creative process.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “And ‘Per la memoria di‘… it doesn’t only

mean ‘in memory of the deceased.‘ In Italian, it can also express ‘to

remember someone.‘ I wanted to remember the inspiration and love

Julian gave me.”

A few sympathetic murmurs rippled through the room.

Ice crawled up my spine. The lie was perfect–every detail, every

timeline inconsistency, smoothly explained away.

Sterling pressed on. “Ms. Kennedy has provided adequate explanation.

The question is: how did you obtain these private sketches? These

photographs are Ms. Kennedy’s personal property. Your unauthorized

distribution constitutes invasion of privacy.”

“I got them from my mother. These sketches belonged to Mrs.

Castellano-”

“Mrs. Castellano?” Sterling interrupted. “Can you prove this person

existed?”

“She was real! She died three years ago. I have her obituary, her

studio address-”

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“Information that can be fabricated. Can you provide her birth

certificate, social security number, official identity documents?”

I froze. I had none of those. Mrs. Castellano was an Italian

immigrant; mai., records had been lost when her landlord cleared out

her apartment after her death.

Sterling seized the opening. “You see–you cannot prove this ‘Mrs.

Castellano‘ ever existed. Meanwhile, Ms. Kennedy has provided

substantial evidence that E.C. is her pseudonym.”

He displayed a series of documents: photos of teenage Sloane at a

Florence art academy, a sketchbook signed “E.C.” (obviously recently

fabricated but convincingly aged), a letter from an “art program

instructor” (forged, but official–looking).

Mr. Harrington looked at me. “Ms. Vance, the evidence appears

unfavorable to you. Do you have anything to add?”

I knew it was pointless. They could twist any evidence I offered.

Sterling opened another folder. “Ms. Vance, given the severe harm

your malicious accusations have caused my client, we require the

following remediation: First, you must immediately post a public apology on social media, admitting your allegations were completely

false. Second-”

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“Sterling, wait.” Sloane interrupted him, voice urgent.

Everyone turned.

Sloane stood and walked toward me. A flash of nervousness crossed

her face before dissolving into gentle concern. “Elara… I know you

might have been misled, or perhaps just misunderstood. I don’t want

this to escalate further. It’s not good for either of us.”

She bit her lip, as if making a difficult decision. “The apology…

actually, you don’t have to do it. I don’t want to force you to say

something you don’t believe.”

Surface magnanimity. Underneath: fear. She wasn’t sure what other

evidence I might have. A public apology would keep the spotlight on

the story, potentially triggering more uncontrollable revelations.

Sterling frowned. “Ms. Kennedy-”

“Sterling, I just want this to end quickly. Prolonged conflict isn’t good

for my art.” She turned to me, eyes sincere. “But I do have one

condition. You must sign a written pledge promising not to spread unverified information about my work in any public or private

setting. This protects both of us and avoids legal disputes.”

Her tone was gentle but firm. “If you sign this agreement, we can put

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this behind us. I won’t pursue it further, and the school won’t make

things difficult for you.”

Surface compromise. Real goal: silence me quickly before things

spiral.

Sterling glanced at Julian. Julian nodded slightly–understanding

Sloane’s strategy.

Sterling handed me a document. “This is a confidentiality and non-

disclosure agreement. Contents include: you acknowledge yesterday’s

information was misleading; you promise not to spread questions

about Ms. Kennedy’s work origins in any form; violation carries a

penalty of no less than $500,000 plus full legal liability.”

My fingers trembled as I took the pages.

I scanned the terms. This agreement would seal my mouth. Once

signed, I could never publicly discuss Sloane’s plagiarism again,

But I’d also caught Sloane’s nervousness–that too–quick “the apology

can be waived,” the flicker in her eyes that revealed uncertainty.

“What if I don’t sign?”

Sloane’s face stiffened briefly before recovering. “Then I can only

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respect Sterling’s recommendation and resolve this through legal

channels. But I really hope it doesn’t come to that…”

Sterling added coldly, “If you choose litigation, you’ll face not only

the Kennedy family’s legal team but the full legal resources of the

Vane family. Defamation is a serious crime in New York State.

Maximum penalty: one year imprisonment.”

Four walls closing in. Sign and be silenced forever. Refuse and face

crushing legal warfare.

Julian finally spoke, voice low and cold. “Ms. Vance, Sloane has shown

you maximum generosity. If I were you, I’d treasure this opportunity.”

His eyes swept over me, filled with judgment and disappointment. “I

thought you were just young and impulsive. But now I see this was

premeditated malicious defamation. Not a misunderstanding-

deliberate character assassination.”

The words hit like a fist to my chest. I forced myself to stay calm. “I

need time to consider.”

Mr. Harrington: “You have forty–eight hours. But in the interim, the school has decided to issue you a formal warning for unauthorized tampering with technical equipment, which violates school regulations. If within forty–eight hours you neither sign the

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agreement nor issue a public apology, the board will reassess your

enrollment status.”

I took the document with shaking hands. I didn’t sign.

Dr. Pemberton sighed. “Ms. Vance, for your own future, I suggest you

cooperate. You’re months away from college applications. Expulsion

would severely damage your recommendation letters and application

prospects.”

I looked at everyone in the room–the lawyers‘ indifference, the board

members‘ impatience, the principal’s resignation, Sloane’s surface

gentleness masking nervousness, Julian’s ice.

I suddenly understood: in this room, truth didn’t matter. Power did.

And Sloane’s “generosity” was just fear–fear that I had more

evidence.

‘I need time to think,” I repeated.

I stood and walked toward the door. Behind me, whispers began.