Chapter 6

Chloe's POV

I stared at my phone screen long after Richard's call had ended, his final threat still ringing in my ears like a death knell.

Be here by six. Don't even think about pulling any of your little stunts.

The memory hit me before I could stop it—one year ago, Paris, when Richard had tracked me down at my cramped studio apartment in the Marais.

I'd been hunched over my drafting table, pins between my teeth, working on a draping technique that refused to cooperate, when his knock shattered my concentration.

He'd stood in my doorway wearing that same false warmth he always deployed when he wanted something, calling me "niece" like the word didn't taste like poison in both our mouths.

"Your father would be so proud," he'd said, eyes scanning my workspace with the calculating assessment of a man appraising inventory. "All this talent, wasted on... what did you call it? Independent design?"

Then he'd pulled out a leather portfolio I recognized instantly—the worn edges, the monogrammed initials JV embossed in fading gold. My father's final collection. The sketches he'd died before completing, containing revolutionary tailoring techniques that could redefine haute couture if they ever saw a runway.

"These belong to the family," Richard had said, holding my father's legacy just out of reach.

"But I'm willing to make a deal. Marry Julian Russo, secure the investment Vance Textiles desperately needs, and they're yours. Refuse, and I'll make sure these sketches disappear forever—or worse, I'll sell them to the highest bidder and let some corporate hack slap their label on your father's genius."

The memory dissolved as a gust of wind cut through my blazer, snapping me back to the present.

I stood outside Odyssey's glass tower, my phone clutched tight enough that the edges bit into my palm, Richard's threat from moments ago still ringing in my ears alongside that year-old ultimatum.

Derek Harvey's voice layered over my uncle's in a nauseating chorus—fuck you, spread your legs, call it networking mixing with be here by six, don't embarrass me.

But I couldn't afford to break. Not yet.

My fingers found the recorder in my pocket, and I pressed it once, twice, feeling the small device's weight like a grenade pin I'd just pulled.

Every word Derek had said was captured in digital permanence, every threat and proposition preserved.

The fury in my chest crystallized into something colder, sharper—a blade I could use to gut him when the time came.

I dialed Emily before I'd even reached the curb.

"Did you get it?" Her voice was tight with controlled urgency.

"Every goddamn syllable." I forced my breathing to steady, my mind already racing through next steps. "He wants fifty thousand for full trademark transfer, and heavily implied that 'playing nice' involves spreading my legs and calling it a networking."

Emily's exhale was sharp and vicious. "That motherfucker. We're going to destroy him."

"Not yet." I flagged down a taxi, my reflection ghosting across the car's window—blazer still sharp, hair still perfect, the armor I'd worn into that office still intact even if I felt like I was bleeding underneath.

"We need more than just his word against ours. I want proof he's done this before, a pattern we can document. Can you dig into his history? Other designers he's worked with, any whispers of misconduct?"

"Already on it." I heard the click of her keyboard through the phone. "But Chloe, we need to talk about backup plans. If he makes good on those threats—if he uses his connections to freeze us out of fabric suppliers, buyer channels—"

"Then we find other investors." I slid into the taxi, gave the driver Richard's address in the northern suburbs, and felt my jaw tighten.

"I'm not letting that predator take what we built. But right now, I need you to sit tight. Don't reach out to Odyssey, don't respond to anything from Derek. Let him think I'm actually considering his offer."

Emily's pause was weighted. "You're not, right? Considering it?"

The question shouldn't have stung, but it did—a reminder that even my closest ally had to ask, had to make sure I hadn't calculated the cost of my dignity and found it cheaper than failure.

"What do you think?"

"I think you'd rather burn the whole industry down than let someone like him win." Her voice softened fractionally. "Just making sure you haven't forgotten that about yourself."

I almost smiled. Almost. "I'll call you after I deal with Richard."

The line went dead, and I leaned back against the worn leather seat, watching Elysium's skyline recede behind me.

Somewhere in one of those glass towers, Arthur was probably in a meeting, making decisions that moved markets and crushed competitors, completely unaware that I'd just spent my morning being sexually extorted by one of his industry peers.

The thought made my stomach twist—not because I wanted to run to him for protection, but because part of me did, and that weakness terrified me more than Derek's threats ever could.

I pulled up my messages, scrolling past Emily's updates to the thread I'd been avoiding since last night.

Marcus had sent a single text at 3 AM: Mr. Sterling requests you inform him if you require any assistance with your current situation.

Current situation. Like Arthur didn't already know every detail of my life, hadn't admitted last night that he'd been watching me for two years through God knows what surveillance network.

The casual invasion should have made me furious—it did make me furious—but underneath the anger was something more dangerous: the traitorous relief that someone had been paying attention, that I hadn't been as alone as I'd thought.

I deleted the message without responding.

The taxi pulled up to Richard's house—a sprawling colonial in a neighborhood that screamed new money trying to cosplay old wealth—and I forced myself to shift gears, to become the version of Chloe Vance that Richard expected: compliant, desperate, willing to trade her future for scraps of her father's legacy.

My fingers brushed the recorder one last time before I stepped out of the car.

Derek Harvey thought he'd cornered me. Richard thought he owned me.

They were both about to learn that I'd spent two years in Paris doing more than just studying haute couture—I'd learned how to play a long game, how to smile while sharpening knives, how to lose a battle so thoroughly that no one saw the war coming.

I smoothed down my blazer, painted on the mask of dutiful niece who knew her place, and walked up the stone pathway to Richard's front door.

The lawn was too green, the hedges too perfectly manicured—everything about this house was a performance of respectability, just like the man who lived inside it.

Time to convince him I was exactly what he thought I was: a girl with no options and fewer allies, too weak to fight and too desperate to run.

Let him believe it. Let them all believe it.

Because when I finally struck back, I wanted them to never see it coming.