Chapter 2

At two in the afternoon, I walked into the breakroom with my coffee cup.

As soon as I pushed the door open, I saw Brooke standing there. She had her two loyal minions with her, arms crossed, completely blocking the exit.

"Chloe Miller!" she yelled, her voice piercing enough to wake the dead. "This isn't over! I've already called the cops! You’re going to jail! A $5,000 bag is grand larceny, honey. Enjoy prison!"

I opened my thermos, took a slow sip of my coffee, and looked at her calmly.

Her makeup was flawless—Chanel lipstick, Dior foundation, all luxury brands. A standard administrative supervisor making maybe $5,000 a month, yet she was wearing over $10,000 worth of luxury goods.

I had never paid attention to those details before.

Now, I did.

"You called the cops?" I set my thermos down. My voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for everyone outside the door to hear. "Perfect. Let’s have them pull the security footage and see who's actually lying."

She clearly hadn’t expected that reaction.

Usually, when innocent people are accused, they cry, scream, or beg. She had probably prepared a whole script to counter my tears.

But I wasn't playing by her rules.

She froze for a split second, then her voice went an octave higher, so loud I felt the coffee cups on the counter vibrate. "Are you still trying to play dumb?! I’ve seen plenty of trailer trash like you! You see luxury and you can't help yourself! You thief! Have you no shame?!"

I laughed.

Not a cold sneer, but a genuine laugh.

"Brooke," I tilted my head, looking at her with genuine curiosity. "You do realize this is Miller Enterprises, right?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. "Like I give a crap! It's not like you own it! If you were actually the Miller heiress, then I’d be the CEO’s wife!"

"Right. You're absolutely right," I said, picking up my coffee and turning around. "Like you give a crap."

Behind me, she exploded into a storm of curses. Some of the slang was so creative I hadn't even heard it before. She definitely had a colorful life background.

I didn't bother listening.

As I stepped out of the breakroom, several colleagues were standing in the hallway, pretending to make phone calls or grab water, but their ears were practically twitching.

The moment they saw me, they quickly averted their eyes.

I walked past them, catching a whiff of cheap perfume.

Back at my desk, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from my dad on Snapchat: "I heard you’re having some trouble at the office?"

The message was sent five minutes ago. The building management must have tipped him off. This entire skyscraper was crawled with my dad's eyes and ears—the janitors, the security guards, the receptionist, they all worked for him.

I typed back: "Just a minor issue. I'm handling it."

"Don't let them push you around. Our family doesn't need to put up with that garbage."

"I know."

After sending that, I added another text: "Dad, have you looked into Brooke Davis?"