Chapter 8 - Chloe’s Loyalty Runs Dry
By 7:00 PM, Lucas was sitting in the corner booth of a dingy bar on Western Avenue, reeking of bourbon and defeat.
His credit cards were declined at three different boutique hotels downtown. His company laptop had been remotely wiped by Aegis's sysadmin at 2:00 PM. Every time he tried to log into his personal online banking, an error message popped up: *Account Restricted — Under Judicial Audit.*
He pulled out his phone with shaking hands and dialed Chloe.
It rang five times before she finally picked up.
"Chloe! Thank God," Lucas gasped into the receiver. "Listen to me, baby. Everything went sideways today, but I’ve got a plan. I’m coming over to the River North apartment. We need to pack your things, take what’s left of your consulting LLC cash, and book flights to Miami. We can rebuild this."
Silence hung on the line for three agonizing seconds.
"Lucas," Chloe said, her voice flat, detached, and utterly cold. "Don't come here."
Lucas froze, the bourbon glass hovering halfway to his lips. "What? What are you talking about?"
"I don't live there anymore. Building management terminated the corporate lease this afternoon. I'm at my parents' house in Naperville."
"Then I'll drive to Naperville! We have the money in your LLC, right? The twenty-four thousand?"
Chloe let out a bitter, terrified laugh. "The money is gone, Lucas. Sophia’s forensic team froze that account before lunch. And she gave me a choice: either I sign a full confession detailing every dollar you forced me to route, or she hands my name over to the FBI’s financial crimes division."
"You... you signed it?" Lucas whispered, his voice cracking like thin ice. "Chloe, you promised me! You said you loved me!"
"I’m twenty-six, Lucas! I’m not going to federal prison for your ego!" Chloe shouted into the phone. "Sophia knows everything. She showed me the server logs. She knew about our trips to Cabo before I even packed my bags! She isn't just your wife—she’s a monster. She dismantled you in twelve hours, and I'm not going down with your ship."
"Chloe, wait—"
"Don't call this number again. I gave my phone to my lawyer."
The line went dead.
Lucas stared at the black screen of his phone.
Twenty-four hours ago, he was the toast of Chicago’s tech elite. He was surrounded by sycophants, holding court at a Michelin-starred restaurant, shoving his wife’s face into a birthday cake just to prove that he was the god of his little universe.
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Now, he had forty-two dollars in cash in his pocket, a drained burner phone, and nowhere to sleep.
***
