Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 93

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Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire’s Second

Chapter 93

Elara

The bathroom mirror showed a stranger’s face.

Pale skin. Dark circles carved deep beneath red–rimmed eyes. Lips

cracked and colorless.

I gripped the edge of the sink, willing my hands to.op shaking.

Monday morning. 8:30 AM.

Julian’s deadline: noon.

I’d spent Sunday alone in my room, curtains drawn, riding out wave

after wave of nausea. The Plan B had done its work. Cramps twisted.

through my abdomen in vicious spirals. My head throbbed.

Everything hurt.

But I was here. Upright. Dressed.

The black turtleneck hid the bruises on my neck–Julian’s mouth, hot

and demanding. The gray slacks were the only pair I owned that

didn’t need ironing. I looked almost presentable.

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Almost.

“Elara?” Yuki’s voice came through the thin door. A soft knock. “You

sure you’re okay to go out? You look really bad.”

I turned on the faucet. Splashed cold water on my face.

“I’m fine. Thank you for worrying.”

The door handle rattled but didn’t turn. I’d locked it.

“If you need anything-”

“I know. I’ll be back later.”

I stared at my reflection one more time. Tried to find the girl who’d

stood in Blackwood Estate’s mirror three years ago, believing Julian

Vane was her North Star.

She was gone.

What remained was this: a body that ached. A mind that remembered

dying. And a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all.

I picked up my bag and walked out. Diego was heating instant ramen

in the shared kitchen.

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He looked up, chopsticks frozen halfway to his mouth. “Jesus. Elara,

are you do you need me to drive you somewhere?”

“No. Thank you.”

“You sure? Because you look like you’re about to pass out.”

I forced my lips into something resembling a smile. “I’m okay. Just…

didn’t sleep well.”

His eyes said he didn’t believe me. But he nodded anyway.

“Take care of yourself.”

The morning air hit me like a slap. Cold. Sharp. Real.

I pulled my coat tighter and started walking toward the subway.

Each step sent a fresh cramp through my lower abdomen. I breathed

through it. Kept moving.

My phone buzzed.

St. Valerius Academy: “Your half–day absence request has been

approved. No need to come to school this morning.”

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It must be Julian.

He’d already cleared my schedule. Made sure I couldn’t hide in

classrooms or hallways. Couldn’t delay.

The message was clear: Come to me. Now.

Or face the consequences.

I descended into the subway station, swiping my MetroCard with

trembling fingers.

The morning rush pressed in from all sides.

Bodies packed tight. The smell of coffee and sweat and exhaust. A woman’s elbow jabbed my ribs. A man’s briefcase knocked against my

hip.

I grabbed the overhead rail and closed my eyes.

The train lurched forward.

My stomach lurched with it.

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“Not here. Please. Not here.”

I swallowed hard. Focused on breathing. In through the nose. Out

through the mouth.

The nausea settled. Barely.

Across from me, a mother held a toddler in her lap. The little girl

clutched a stuffed rabbit, giggling at something on her mom’s phone

Lily had loved rabbits.

I looked away.

“I’m doing this for you,” I thought. “For Mamá. For a future where I

can breathe without their permission.”

But the thought rang hollow.

What I was doing–what I was about to do–wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t

brave.

It was survival in its most degrading form.

“Just a few months,” Ms. Rivera had said. “Sign the paper. Graduate.

Get out.”

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But she didn’t understand.

This wasn’t about signing a piece of paper.

This was about signing myself over. Body. Time. Autonomy.

To Julian Vane.

That man who said I was disgusting. Who’d watched Marcus strip me

down in that club. Who’d fucked me in a hotel room and told me I

no choice but to belong to him.

The train screeched to a halt. I stumbled out onto the platform.

Took the stairs slowly. One at a time.

By the time I emerged onto Central Park West, my legs were shaking.

But I kept walking.

Toward the gleaming glass tower where Julian Vane sat in his office, sixty floors above the city, deciding people’s fates with the stroke of a

pen.

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The Vane Group building rose like a monument to power. Steel and glass. Sharp edges catching the morning light.

I stood on the sidewalk, staring up.

Last time I’d been here, security had thrown me out. Threatened to

call the police.

Now I was expected.

Invited.

Summoned.

I pushed through the revolving door.

The lobby was all marble and money. High ceilings. Sleek furniture. A

massive abstract sculpture in the center–twisted metal that probably

cost more than most people made in a year.

My reflection in the polished floor looked small. Faded. Wrong.

I walked toward the reception desk on unsteady legs.

The woman behind it looked up. Mid–thirties. Perfectly styled blonde

hair. Armani suit.

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Chapter 93

Her eyes swept over me.

I saw the recognition. The judgment.

She’d been here last time. She’d watched me get dragged out.

“I’m Elara Vance.” My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. “I

have an appointment with Julian Vane.”

She picked up the phone. Dialed.

“Mr. Vane? Elara Vance is here.”

A pause. Her expression didn’t change.