Chapter 2

The world tilted on its axis. Liam Miller, Ethan' s cherished "first love," was standing in her house, being welcomed with open arms by her father and his mother. The man who was the source of her deepest heartbreak was now her stepbrother. The irony was so thick, so suffocating, she could barely breathe.

"Chloe," her father's voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs, laced with a triumphant cruelty. "Come down and say hello to your brother, Liam. He'll be living with us now."

Chloe' s eyes were locked on Liam. He offered her a small, innocent-looking smile, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes-smugness, victory. He knew exactly who she was. He knew about her and Ethan. This wasn't a coincidence. It was a declaration of war.

"Brother?" she said, her voice dripping with venom. "I have no brother."

She turned and slammed her bedroom door shut, the sound echoing through the cavernous house. She could hear her father shouting her name, his voice tight with fury, but she ignored it. She leaned against the door, her mind racing. This was a calculated move by Elaine and Liam, a way to cement their place in the Davis family and push her out completely.

A few minutes later, there was a heavy knock on her door. "Chloe, open this door right now!" her father yelled.

She didn't move.

"If you don't open this door, I'm cutting you off! No more credit cards, no more access to your trust fund! You'll be left with nothing!"

Chloe laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Go ahead! It's not my money anyway, it's my mother's! And you're not my father!"

The shouting outside eventually faded, replaced by the murmur of conversation and then, sickeningly, more laughter. They were celebrating. Celebrating her departure and their arrival.

Fine. If they wanted her gone, she would go. But not quietly.

She spent the next hour on her laptop, not packing, but planning. She had her own money, stashed away from the tech patents she' d sold under a pseudonym. It wasn't the Davis fortune, but it was enough. Enough to start over, and enough to cause some serious damage on her way out.

Her first call was to a high-end personal shopper. "I need you to buy out the entire new collection from Chanel, Dior, and Hermes," she said, her voice calm and steady. "Every piece. Clothes, bags, shoes. Charge it all to the Davis family account. Deliver it to the front lawn of the Davis estate. And make it a public spectacle."

Her second call was to a luxury car dealership. "I'd like to purchase a Bugatti La Voiture Noire. Yes, the one-off. Have it delivered to the same address. And I want it painted a hideous shade of pink."

Her third call was to the caterer for the city's biggest charity gala, an event Elaine was chairing that very evening. "Cancel the catering," she said simply. "All of it."

For the rest of the day, she watched from her window as chaos unfolded. A parade of delivery trucks arrived, piling mountains of designer boxes on the perfectly manicured lawn. The garish pink Bugatti was lowered onto the driveway like a monstrous, glittering insect. Her phone buzzed incessantly with furious calls from her father, which she ignored.

By late afternoon, the final blow came. A text from her bank. "NOTICE: Your credit cards have been frozen and access to all associated accounts has been suspended by the primary account holder, Mr. Davis."

So he'd finally done it. She was cut off. Stranded.

A grim smile touched her lips. It didn't matter. The damage was done. She grabbed a small backpack with her laptop and a change of clothes, the only things she truly valued. She slipped out the back service entrance, leaving the circus on the front lawn behind her.

She walked for what felt like miles, the adrenaline slowly fading, leaving a cold, empty feeling in its place. The sun began to set, and the city streets grew more crowded. She had nowhere to go. Her friends were all in the tech world, a world intertwined with Ethan Hayes. She couldn't go to them.

As she stood on a street corner, trying to figure out her next move, a group of rough-looking men started catcalling her from across the street. She ignored them, pulling her hoodie tighter around her face. But they were persistent, crossing the street and starting to surround her.

"Hey, pretty girl. All alone?" one of them sneered, getting too close.

"Leave me alone," Chloe said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Or what?" another one laughed, reaching out to grab her arm.

Chloe's training kicked in. She twisted out of his grasp, her elbow connecting sharply with his ribs. He grunted in pain, but the others just laughed, their amusement turning ugly. They closed in, and a real sense of fear, cold and sharp, finally pierced through her anger.

Just as one of them lunged for her, a sleek black car screeched to a halt beside the curb. The back door flew open.

"Get in."

The voice was deep, familiar, and sent a jolt of pure shock through her. She looked up, and her breath caught in her throat.

It was Ethan.

He was leaning across the backseat, his face a mask of cold fury. His eyes weren't on her, but on the men surrounding her. They froze, instantly recognizing the aura of power and danger that radiated from him.

"I said, get in," Ethan repeated, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet tone that was far more terrifying than any shout.

The men scrambled back, melting into the crowd as if they were never there. Chloe stood frozen for a second, her mind reeling. What was he doing here? How did he find her?

Without another thought, she jumped into the car, pulling the door shut behind her. The car sped away from the curb, cocooning them in a world of silent, expensive leather.

She finally turned to face him, her heart pounding in her chest. "What are you doing here?"

Ethan didn't answer her question. Instead, his cold eyes scanned her from head to toe, taking in her disheveled state. "What do you think you're doing, Chloe?" he asked, his voice laced with an emotion she couldn't quite place. It sounded like anger, but there was something else underneath it, something that almost sounded like... concern. "Making a scene? Getting yourself cut off? Wandering the streets alone? Do you have a death wish?"