Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Elara

The Vanderbilt Club occupied a converted nineteenth–century

townhouse on Fifth Avenue. From the outside, it looked like just

another piece of old New York money–red brick, black shutters,

discreet brass plaque by the door. No sign. No indication of what went

on inside.

Atlas led me through a side entrance, down a hallway lined with oil

paintings I probably wasn’t cultured enough to recognize. Persian

rugs muffled our footsteps. The air smelled of cigars and old wood

and something else–something sweet and slightly chemical that

made my head feel fuzzy.

From somewhere deeper in the building came laughter. Music. The

clink of glasses.

Atlas stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Knocked three times

-a pattern. The door opened from inside, releasing a wave of noise

and smoke and light so bright it made me blink.

He guided me forward with a hand at my elbow–polite, impersonal-

and then I was inside, and the door was closing behind me, and I was

alone.

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The room was huge. Too huge. It had been two rooms once, maybe

three–you could still see where walls had been knocked down, where

moldings didn’t quite match. Now it was one vast space, all leather

furniture and crystal chandeliers and floor–to–ceiling windows

looking out over Fifth Avenue.

There were people everywhere. Draped over couches. Clustered

around a marble–topped bar. Some dancing, some kissing, some doing

things that made me look away fast. They were dressed like they’d

come from a gala–tuxedos and cocktail dresses–but their clothes

were disheveled, ties loosened, straps falling.

The smoke was thicker here. Made my eyes water. Made it hard to

breathe.

And there, in the center of it all, in a high–backed leather chair that

looked like a throne, sat Julian.

He had a glass in one hand–whiskey, probably, from the amber color.

His jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He was watching me

with an expression I couldn’t read.

Around him, the party continued. People laughing. Music pounding.

But he just sat there, still and controlled, like he was watching a play

he’d already seen.

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Then someone moved–a man, mid–twenties, expensive haircut,

cologne so strong I could smell it from across the room. He detached

himself from a group by the bar and came toward me.

“Well, well.” His eyes raked over me–my wrinkled school uniform, my

scuffed shoes, my hair that had come half out of its bun during my

sprint across the street. “Julian brought a new friend. Aren’t you a

fresh little thing?”

He reached out. Touched my shoulder. I flinched back.

He laughed. “Shy? That’s cute. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you a

drink. Help you relax.”

“I don’t-” My voice came out hoarse. “I don’t drink.”

“Everyone drinks here.” He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Not yet. “It’s

the rules. Julian’s rules. You want to be here, you participate.”

I looked past him to Julian. Our eyes met across the room. I waited for

him to say something. To tell this man to let go of me. To explain that

I wasn’t here for–for whatever this was.

But Julian just raised his glass slightly. A small gesture.

Acknowledgment. Nothing more.

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The man pulled me toward a side table covered in bottles. Crystal

decanters. Cocktail shakers. He picked up something pink and sweet-

smelling, thrust it toward my mouth.

“Drink.”

“I said no.”

His hand moved to my jaw. Squeezed. “And I said everyone drinks.

Now be a good girl and open your mouth, or we’re going to have a

problem.”

The room felt too hot. Too small. The smoke was making me dizzy. Or

maybe it wasn’t the smoke. Maybe it was fear, pure and simple,

making my heart race and my palms sweat and my breath come in

short, panicked gasps.

I opened my mouth. He poured. The liquid was cold and sweet and

burned going down. I choked, coughed. Some of it spilled down my

chin.

“There we go!” He was laughing. So were other people. A woman in a

red dress came over, handed him another glass. “Again. You’re way too

sober, sweetheart.”