Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80

Elara

The subway rattled beneath me, but I barely felt it. My hands were

numb–not from the cold November air seeping through the train

car’s doors, but from something deeper.

“Sign their paper. Apologize if you have to. Get through these last few

months, get into college, get away from this city and these people.”

Her words circled in my head like vultures. Reasonable words.

Survival words. The kind of advice that kept people like her–like me

-alive in a world designed to crush us.

But I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t sign. Couldn’t apologize. Couldn’t pretend Sloane

Kennedy’s painting wasn’t stolen, that Elena Castellano never existed,

that Ms. Rivera deserved to lose her job because I’d told the truth.

The train lurched to a stop. Fifty–Third Street. I stood, gripping the

pole as passengers pushed past me. Through the grimy window, I could see the Vane Group tower rising against the darkening sky–all

glass and steel and cold, hard power.

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Julian would still be there. He always worked late on weekdays.

I stepped onto the platform before I could talk myself out of it.

The lobby of Vane Group was designed to intimidate. Thirty–foot

ceilings. Italian marble floors that reflected the massive crystal

chandelier. Security guards in tailored suits, not uniforms. Everything

whispered the same message: “You don’t belong here.”

I’d felt it the first time Julian brought me here, years ago. Felt it in

the way

the receptionist’s smile had frozen when she saw my thrift-

store coat. Felt it in the elevator operator’s eyes as he asked which

floor–as if he could tell just by looking at me that I didn’t know.

Now, crossing that marble floor toward the reception desk, I felt it

again. The weight of not belonging. The certainty that I was an

intruder in a space built for people like Julian, Sloane, the Vanes.

People whose last names opened doors instead of closing them.

“Excuse me, miss?” The security guard’s voice was polite but firm.

He’d moved to intercept me before I reached the desk. “Do you have

an appointment?”

“I need to see Julian Vane.”

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His expression didn’t change. “Mr. Vane doesn’t take walk–in appointments. If you’d like to schedule-”

“I’m Elara Vance.” The name felt strange in my mouth. Strange to

claim it here, in this building that represented everything the Vane family had built without me. “I’m–I’m family. He’ll see me.”

The guard exchanged a look with his partner. “Miss, if you don’t have an appointment, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Otherwise

we’ll need to contact the NYPD.”

I backed toward the exit before they could grab me. My face burned. Behind me, I heard one guard murmur something to the other, heard

their laughter–brief, cruel.

Outside, the evening air hit my face like a slap. Rush hour was endi Suits and briefcases streamed past me on both sides, everyone heading home or to happy hour or to wherever people with normal

lives went at seven–thirty on a Thursday.

I stood there on the sidewalk, staring up at the tower. Somewhere up there, in that building of glass and steel, Julian sat in his corner office making decisions that would ripple through hundreds of lives.

Deciding who got funding and who got foreclosed on. Who got

promoted and who got fired.

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Who got destroyed and who got saved.

The coffee shop across the street had floor–to–ceiling windows. I bought the cheapest thing on the menu–a small drip coffee, two dollars–and claimed a seat with a view of the Vane Group’s side entrance. The one Julian used when he didn’t want to deal with the

lobby crowd.

I wrapped both hands around the paper cup. Watched the building.

Waited.

By eight–fifteen, my coffee was long cold. The barista had started giving me looks–the kind that said “are you going to order something else or should I ask you to leave?” I ignored him. Kept my eyes on wat

side door.

The temperature had dropped. My breath fogged in front of my face. I’d left my heavy coat at the apartment–hadn’t been thinking clearly when I’d run out after leaving Ms. Rivera’s. Now I was paying for it. My fingers had gone white at the tips. My whole body trembled, though I wasn’t sure if it was from cold or from the barely–contained rage that had been building since I’d read that suspension notice.

They can fire me for no reason–there are employment laws, union

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rules. So they create a reason. They make it my fault.

My phone buzzed. Mamá.

“Where are you? It’s dark. You need to come home and eat dinner.”

I typed back: “Studying at the library. Don’t wait up.”

The lie came easily now. Too easily.

At eight–forty, the side door finally opened. Atlas emerged first. Then

Julian appeared.

Even from across the street, even in the fading light, I knew him. The way he moved–efficient, controlled, like every gesture had been calculated for maximum impact. The way he buttoned his coat–one- handed, casual, while his other hand held his phone to his ear.

He was laughing at something the person on the other end said. I could see it in the tilt of his head, the flash of teeth.

I was across the street before I’d consciously decided to move. My legs carried me forward, dodging a taxi, ignoring the horn blast and the driver’s shouted curse. The coffee cup fell from my hand. I didn’t

stop to pick it up.

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“Julian!”

He’d been about to slide into the car. At my voice, he froze. Turned.

I saw the exact moment he recognized me. Saw his expression shift

from mild annoyance to something colder, harder. He said something

into the phone–quick, dismissive–and ended the call.

“Elara.” My name sounded like a warning. “What are you doing here?”

I stopped three feet away. Close enough to see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough to feel the force of his attention, which had always been like standing

too close to a fire.

“You fired Ms. Rivera.”