Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 83

Chapter 83

“No-” I tried to push the glass away. “I’ll get sick-”

“Then get sick. That’s what the bathroom’s for.” He tipped the second

glass to my lips. I tried to turn my head. His other hand caught my

face, held it still. “Drink it. All of it. Julian’s orders.”

I couldn’t see Julian anymore. There were too many people. The

music had gotten louder. Or maybe it was just that my head was

spinning now, that the room was tilting sideways, that everything had

gone slightly blurry at the edges.

The third glass. The fourth. Someone was holding my arms. Someone

else was laughing. A flash went off–a phone camera–and through

the haze I heard someone say “this is going on Instagram” and

someone else say “Julian’s going to kill you.”

But Julian didn’t kill anyone. Didn’t stop anyone. I could see him now,

still in that chair, still watching. Still perfectly, terribly calm.

The fifth glass made me retch. I bent double, one hand on the table,

trying not to throw up. The man–Marcus, someone had called him

Marcus–rubbed my back in mock sympathy. “Poor baby. Can’t hold

her liquor. Should we get her something else? Something to help her

feel better?”

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“I have just the thing,” the woman in red said. She held up a small

plastic bag. White powder inside. “A little pick–me–up.”

“No.” I straightened. The room swayed. “No, I need to leave. I need to

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.” Marcus’s arm went around

my waist. “The night’s just getting started. Come on. We’re going to

play a game.”

He pulled me toward the couches. I stumbled. My legs weren’t

working right. Everything felt distant, muffled, like I was underwater.

“Game time!” someone shouted. People clustered around. Faces I

didn’t know. Eyes that looked through me, not at me. “What are we

playing?”

“Truth or dare,” Marcus said. “Strip version. Loser takes off a piece of

clothing. Simple, right?”

I tried to pull away. His grip tightened. “Julian,” I said. My voice came

out slurred. Weak. “Julian-”

But Julian was talking to someone else now. A blonde woman in a

silver dress. He didn’t even look my way.

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“First round!” Marcus pushed me down onto the couch. Someone

handed out cards. “Lowest card loses. Everyone understand?”

I didn’t understand. Didn’t understand any of this. Didn’t understand

how I’d gotten here, why Julian had brought me here, what was

happening.

The cards blurred in front of me. I drew one. People laughed.

“Looks like our new friend loses!” Marcus grinned. “Come on,

sweetheart. Rules are rules. Off with the jacket.”

My hands shook so hard I could barely work the buttons. Someone

helped–grabbed the fabric, yanked it down my arms. More laughter.

More camera flashes.

“Again!”

Another round. I lost again. My sweater this time. Then my shoes.

Then my socks.

By the fifth round, I was down to my undershirt and skirt. The room

was spinning. People were chanting. Marcus kept refilling my glass–I

hadn’t noticed when I’d finished the others, but there they were,

empty on the table.

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“Last round,” Marcus said. He was too close. His hand was on my

knee. “This is the good one. You lose this time, and that skirt comes

off. Or-” He leaned in. His breath smelled like alcohol and something

rotten. “Or you come with me to one of the private rooms. Just you

and me. We’ll have our own party.”

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t process. Couldn’t make my mouth form

words.

I looked at Julian one more time. He was watching now. Really watching. Our eyes locked across the smoke–filled room.

I mouthed two words: “Help me.”

Five seconds of silence. Five seconds where the music seemed to fade, where the chanting stopped, where everything hung suspended.

Then Julian lifted his glass to his lips. Took a slow sip. And said, in

that quiet, carrying voice I knew so well: