Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 95

Chapter 95

Elara

I left the Vane Group building and walked three blocks before my legs

started shaking.

The morning sun felt too bright, the sidewalk too crowded, every sound amplified in my skull. My abdomen cramped in waves–sharp twists that made me pause mid–step, one hand braced against a storefront window until the pain dulled enough to move again.

I needed food. Something to settle my stomach before school.

There was a small diner on Lexington, the kind with red vinyl booths and laminated menus, where the coffee was weak and the eggs came with toast that tasted like cardboard. I slid into a corner booth, ordered scrambled eggs and dry wheat toast, and watched the server’s eyebrows lift slightly at my request for no butter, no cheese, nothing that might make my stomach rebel further.

The food arrived. I ate mechanically, forcing each bite down. My reflection in the window across from me looked hollow–eyed and pale, a ghost wearing my face. The high–necked sweater hid the bruises on my throat, but it couldn’t hide the exhaustion written into every line of my expression.

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I pressed my fingers against the glass. Cold. Solid. Real. Twenty minutes and half a plate later, I paid in cash and left.

The subway ride to school was a blur of fluorescent lights and bodies pressed too close, the train’s rocking motion sending fresh waves of nausea through me every time we lurched to a stop. By the time I climbed the steps at my station, my hands were trembling again, cold sweat beading at my hairline despite the chill in the air.

St. Valerius Academy rose before me. I walked through the main entrance, my footsteps echoing in the marble hallway, and headed straight for the administrative wing where Dr. Pemberton’s office

waited.

The principal’s office smelled like furniture polish and old leather.

I sat across from Dr. Pemberton’s desk. Transfer paperwork spread between us. Black ink on white paper. Clean. Official.

“Elara.” His voice had softened since last time. Money did that. Changed people’s tones. “The school believes the Arts Experimental track will better suit your development.”

I stared at the signature line.

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“Smaller classes. Excellent resources. Less academic pressure.” He

pushed a pen toward me. “You’ll have more time to focus on your

portfolio.”

I picked up the pen. My hand shook slightly.

The cramps had started again. Sharp twists in my abdomen.

I signed.

Dr. Pemberton smiled. Relieved. “Wonderful. You can start this afternoon. After lunch, report to the Arts building, third floor.”

“Thank you.”

The words came out flat. Automatic.

I took the folder. Walked out.

The hallway felt different. Emptier.

I passed my old classroom. Through the window I saw Victoria laughing with her friends. She glanced up. Our eyes met.

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Her smile widened. Triumphant.

I kept walking.

Maybe leaving that toxic circle was actually mercy. Not punishment.

The Arts building was across the courtyard. Different architecture. More glass. Less marble. Walls covered in student work–graffiti murals, abstract sculptures, protest posters.

The smell changed. Paint. Clay. Something earthy and alive.

Third floor. Room 304.

The door stood half–open. Music leaked out. Indie rock. Someone

laughing.

I stopped outside. Took a breath.

The classroom was chaos.

Tables scattered everywhere. No neat rows. Paint–stained easels. Sculpture materials piled in corners. A keyboard against one wall. Laptop chargers snaking across the floor.

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Twenty students. Every ethnicity. Every style. Some painting. Some

coding. One girl with purple hair sat on a desk, fingers flying across a

laptop.

A paintbrush flew past my head.

Landed at my feet.

The music cut off.

Everyone turned.

The purple–haired girl spun another brush between her fingers. “Yo.

You the new girl?”

She jumped down from the desk. Others parted like water.

“You’re that Vane family princess, right?” Her eyes were sharp.

Assessing. Multiple piercings glinted in her ears. Heavy silver chains. Black hoodie. Ripped jeans.

“The one who couldn’t hack it in AP Honors?”

Nineteen. Mixed race. Voice like gravel.

Raven Black.

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My heart stuttered.

In my last life, I’d only known her through screens. Instagram posts.

TechCrunch articles. A Forbes interview about her NFT platform

disrupting the art world.

“I only work with people who have spine,” she’d said. “Cowards don’t

belong on my team.”

She’d built a revolutionary blockchain art exchange. Threatened the Vane–Kennedy monopoly on the art market. Worth billions by twenty-

three.

Until Sloane got jealous.

Until Sloane arranged an “accident” at a company event.

Until Raven fell down stairs and never woke up.

The memory hit like

cold water.

I bent down. Picked up the paintbrush she’d thrown.

Her eyes followed my movement. Challenging.

“No special treatment here,” she said. “Don’t care what your last name

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1. is. Don’t care who your family knows.”

I straightened. Met her gaze.

Then threw the brush back.

Hard.

She dodged. Fast. The brush hit the wall behind her.

Silence crashed over the room.

Raven’s eyes widened. Then she laughed.

“Shit. Okay.” She walked toward me. Hand extended. “Maybe you’re

not completely soft.”

I shook her hand. Her grip was strong. Calluses on her fingers from

keyboard and stylus.

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