Reborn at Eighteen: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Elara

The snowflakes fell like ash over the gray crematorium building, each one dissolving the moment it touched my frozen fingertips. I stood outside the glass doors, watching through the condensation-fogged windows as the middle-aged couple from the foster home signed papers at the front desk. A social worker in a navy blazer stood beside them, clipboard in hand, nodding with practiced sympathy.

My feet were numb in my worn sneakers. The secondhand wool coat I'd bought from a Bronx thrift store did nothing against the New York wind that knifed through the parking lot. When I pressed my palm against the glass door, the cold burned—but not as much as the sight of that small white casket in the corner of the funeral home lobby.

So small. Like a jewelry box. Like something meant for dolls, not children.

Not my daughter.

"Excuse me, Miss Vance."

A man in a tailored suit materialized beside me—one of those corporate lawyers with a Rolex that cost more than my mother's yearly wages. His breath formed white clouds as he spoke, each word clipped and efficient.

"According to the medical conservatorship order signed by the New York Family Court, you have no legal authority to participate in the funeral arrangements for the minor Lily Vance." He pulled a document from his leather briefcase with the smooth efficiency of someone who'd done this before. "This is a restraining order. If you continue to make contact, we will notify the authorities."

The words hit me like physical blows, but my body had long since stopped registering pain. I dropped to my knees in the slush. The wet cold soaked through my jeans immediately.

"Please." My voice came out strangled, unfamiliar. "Just let me see her. One last time. I'm her mother—"

"The court determined otherwise."

The phrase triggered something in my mind—a door opening onto a memory I'd been trying to keep locked. But grief has its own logic, its own timeline. The present dissolved, and I was somewhere else entirely.

Three days ago. The phone call.

I'd been in the middle of painting—my hands covered in cadmium red and burnt umber—when my phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer.

"Is this Elara Vance?"

The woman's voice had that carefully modulated sympathy they must teach in social work school. Professional. Distant. Like she made these calls every day.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Jennifer Marks from New York Child Protective Services. I'm calling about Lily Vance." A pause. Too long. "Miss Vance, I'm very sorry to inform you that Lily died this morning at 11:32 AM. Anaphylactic shock. Rochester General Hospital. Our condolences."

The paintbrush had slipped from my fingers. Red paint splattered across the concrete floor of my studio—looking too much like blood, like evidence of violence.

"What do you mean, died? What happened? Where was her EpiPen? Why didn't they call me?"

"The foster family administered the EpiPen immediately, but the reaction was too severe. By the time the ambulance arrived—"

"What caused it? What did they give her?"

Another pause. Papers rustling. "According to the preliminary report... oatmeal cookies. Containing walnut pieces. The foster mother stated she wasn't aware—"

"It's in her file!" I was screaming now. "Severe tree nut allergy! I told them! I told the judge! I told everyone who would listen!"

"I understand you're upset, Miss Vance, but the foster family acted within—"

I'd hung up. Then I'd vomited into my paint bucket.

It took three buses and a train to reach Rochester General. By the time I arrived, the hospital had moved her to the morgue. Basement level. Fluorescent lights humming like insects. The smell of industrial disinfectant trying and failing to mask the scent of death.

The attendant—a tired-looking man in scrubs—pulled back just enough of the sheet for me to see her face.

Lily. My Lily.

Her skin had gone gray. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she'd been asking a question when death came. There were still crumbs on her chin—from the cookies that killed her.

I'd reached out to touch her cheek. Cold. So cold. Like touching marble.

"The medical examiner's report is preliminary," the attendant said, his voice carefully neutral. "But it appears the foster family gave her homemade oatmeal cookies containing walnut pieces. The allergy is clearly documented in her medical file."

My fingers gripped the edge of the steel table. "Where are they?"

"The foster parents?"

"Where. Are. They."

"Upstairs. With their lawyer." He shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Vance, there's a liability clause in the foster agreement. The state accepts responsibility for placement decisions, but individual foster parents are protected from—"

"She was four years old."

He'd looked away. "I'm sorry. I have other cases to process."

I'd stood there for a long time after he left, just looking at her. Memorizing the curve of her cheek, the scatter of freckles across her nose, the way her hair curled at the temples. All the details I'd been forbidden from seeing for a year.

Then I'd pulled out my phone and dialed Julian's number.

Once. Twice. Ten times. He didn't answer.

On the seventeenth call, he picked up.

"Julian." My voice cracked on his name. "Lily's dead."

Silence.

"Did you hear me? Our daughter is dead. They killed her. The foster family—they didn't check the ingredients, they didn't follow the medical file. We can sue them. You have lawyers, you have money, you can—"

"Elara." His voice was ice. "I'll say this one final time. I don't have a daughter like that."

The words were so cold they burned.

"The only child who will ever call me 'Daddy' is one Sloane will give birth to. If you continue this harassment, I'll have my legal team file a cease-and-desist order."

In the background, I heard her laugh—Sloane's crystalline, delighted laugh. Then her voice, playful and light: "Darling, the wedding planner is getting impatient~"

The line went dead.

I'd stood in that basement morgue, surrounded by the smell of death and disinfectant, and understood with perfect clarity: no one was coming to save us. No one ever had been.

But even that wasn't the first time I'd lost her.