Chapter 5 - Chloe's Delusion
There was a three-second silence on the line before Chloe burst into hysterical laughter. The sound was shrill and mocking through the phone’s speaker.
“Henry Vale? Nolan, have you been drinking this early?” Chloe sneered. “Clara’s father is an old peasant who repairs broken chairs in some forgotten dirt-road town! She wore fifty-dollar polyester sweaters and clipped grocery coupons! If she had a rich father, do you think she would have spent the last three years cooking your dinners and wiping your counters like an unpaid housekeeper? You’ve lost your mind! Stop making up excuses and bring me my credit card!”
“Listen to me, you brainless parasite!” Nolan screamed, his face turning an alarming shade of crimson. “I was just in the top-floor boardroom of Vale Global! Clara is sitting in the Vice Chairman’s seat! She called in our fifty-million-dollar note! The company is dead! Everything is gone! Get your bags and get out of the apartment before—”
The line went dead.
Back in the penthouse, Chloe stared at her phone with an amused, irritated smirk. She flipped her bleached blonde hair over her shoulder and took a sip of her freshly poured mimosa. “He’s clearly losing his nerve,” she muttered to herself, wandering into the master bedroom. “Men are so dramatic when business hits a rough patch.”
She admired herself in the full-length gilded mirror, running a manicured finger over the gold-trimmed vanity Clara had bought with her own pocket money months ago. Chloe picked up an antique perfume bottle—an heirloom given to Clara by her late mother—and casually tossed it into the wastebasket. “Trash,” she chuckled. “All of it is mine now. The company, the penthouse, Nolan’s fortune. If Clara’s father were a billionaire, she wouldn’t have begged on her knees when I shoved her down those concrete stairs.”
Suddenly, the front door chime rang. It wasn't the polite single tone of a guest. It was the loud, insistent buzz of an authorized emergency master override.
Chloe frowned, setting down her champagne flute. “Who could that be? Nolan must have forgotten his key fob again.”
She strutted toward the grand foyer in her silk robe, swinging the heavy oak door open with an annoyed sigh. “Nolan, I swear if you—”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Standing in the private elevator vestibule were not Nolan Vance, but six armed officers from the City Sheriff’s Department, accompanied by four men in tailored charcoal suits carrying heavy clipboards and biometric locking equipment. Behind them stood two moving crew foremen holding industrial-grade crates.
“Chloe Adams?” the lead Sheriff Deputy inquired, glancing down at a laminated court order.
“Who wants to know?” Chloe crossed her arms defensively, her tone haughty. “Do you know where you are? This is the private residence of Nolan Vance, CEO of Vance Dynamics. You can’t just barge up here! I’ll have your badges!”
The Deputy didn't even blink. “Miss Adams, as of eight-fifteen this morning, Vance Dynamics defaulted on its primary lease covenants with Vale Commercial Properties. Furthermore, by order of the State Supreme Court, an emergency writ of possession and asset preservation has been issued on behalf of the property owner, Clara Vale.”
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Chloe scoffed loudly. “Clara *Vance*, you mean! And she doesn’t own this place! Nolan bought this penthouse!”
The lead attorney stepped forward, pushing rectangular spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Vance purchased this residence using a mezzanine loan financed by Vale Holdings. The title was never transferred to his personal name; it has always been held in trust for Clara Vale. You have fifteen minutes to collect your personal identification and leave the premises.”
