Chapter 2 No.2

Chloe POV:

I walked down the wet cobblestone driveway, leaving the multi-million-dollar facade of the Tucker estate behind me. The cold autumn drizzle misting against my skin felt sharp, clearing away twenty-two years of suffocating dust.

By the time I reached the outer boulevard intersection, twenty minutes had passed.

In the palm of my hand, my modified phone vibrated sharply. I pulled it up to my eyes. A text message from an unlisted satellite number flashed across the screen:

[DNA Match Verified. Medical licensure override successful. Miss Chloe, I am holding your infant hospital transfer record #0824. My name is Walter. I am waiting at the north curb of the boulevard intersection to bring you home. Please proceed forward.]

Infant hospital transfer record #0824.

That was the exact identification code written on the blurred, fire-damaged maternity archive document I had found in Robert Tucker's private server. It was the only concrete proof I had that my birth here was a lie. Whoever this "Walter" was, he possessed the missing half of the puzzle I had been hunting for two years.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I gripped my duffel bags tightly and accelerated my pace toward the designated curb.

As I approached, a sleek, custom-extended black Lincoln Navigator idled smoothly beneath the amber glow of the corner streetlamp. But parked directly beside it—acting as a rugged, unassuming decoy—was an ancient, beat-up Ford pickup truck with peeling matte-gray paint and a cracked side-view mirror.

Leaning against the dented hood of the pickup was a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a simple wool utility jacket, his posture straight as an iron blade. When his steel-gray eyes caught mine through the falling mist, a look of profound reverence washed across his lined face. He immediately pushed off the hood and stood at full attention.

Just as I reached the curb, the heavy, high-powered hum of a W12 engine echoed down the avenue.

A luxury black town car—the Tucker family's evening convoy heading out toward the Sinclair gala—cruised past the intersection, slowing down slightly for the amber light. The rear window rolled down.

Jessica and Brenda leaned out. The moment their eyes swept over the battered, rusted Ford pickup truck and the older gentleman in his faded jacket, a vicious, triumphant sneer twisted across Jessica's painted face.

"Oh, my god. Are my eyes deceiving me?" Jessica laughed, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the mist. She leaned out further, looking down her nose at me. "Sister, is this your grand exit? Did you crawl out of our house just to shack up with a dockside laborer driving a literal piece of garbage?"

Brenda crossed her arms, her eyes sweeping over Walter's worn utility jacket with venomous disgust. "An ungrateful daughter, crawling right back into the filth where she belongs. You think a rusted scrap-metal truck makes you look tragic, Chloe? It just proves that dirt always finds its own kind."

An ungrateful daughter.

I stood by the rusty truck, a cold, silent smile touching my lips. For twenty-two years, that was the public mask they forced upon me—the identity they used to conceal whatever monstrous crime they committed the day I was born. They had no idea that the girl they were sneering at had already unlocked the cage, and was about to step into a world they couldn't even comprehend.

I didn't dignify their screeching with a single word.

Instead, Walter moved.

He didn't shout. He didn't raise a fist.

He simply took three calm, measured strides forward, placing his broad frame directly between the car and me. The air around us plummeted into sub-zero stillness.

Walter looked down at Brenda and Jessica. His steel-gray eyes were so chillingly dead, so radiating with lethal authority, that both women choked on their laughter, freezing in their tracks. It was the aura of a man who had commanded global security forces.

"You have spoken three sentences too many, Madam," Walter said. His voice was deceptively soft, but it carried the terrifying weight of an approaching storm. "If another vulgar syllable escapes your mouth regarding the sole heiress of our dynasty, I will ensure that every business license, personal trust, and breathing privilege your family holds is eradicated before sunrise."

Brenda swallowed hard, an involuntary shiver rattling her spine beneath his stare. "W-who do you think you are, you old—"

Walter didn't even grant her another glance. He turned his back on them entirely, treating them like invisible dust on the asphalt. He reached down, took the heavy duffel bags from my hands with effortless strength, and lifted them into the truck bed with utmost care.

"Please step inside, Miss Chloe," Walter murmured gently, bowing his head with absolute reverence. "The night dampness is harmful to your health, and your family has waited nineteen years."

I pulled the creaking passenger door open, stepped onto the runner, and slid onto the worn vinyl bench.

Walter climbed into the driver's seat, turned the ignition, and shifted into gear. The engine turned over with a deep growl, and the truck accelerated smoothly into the street, leaving Brenda and Jessica behind in the gloom as their driver stepped on the gas to flee the oppressive atmosphere Walter had left in their wake.