Chapter 64 65
Outside the bank, I put my sunglasses back on and exhaled through a grin.
Venice could pretend all she wanted. That her fashion line was doing well. That her name still held weight in this city.
But her credit was shot. Her desperation was showing.
And soon, her glossy designer world would crumble—stitch by overpriced stitch.
I climbed into the backseat of the car and texted Tomas:
BLOCKED HER AT STERLING.
IF SHE TRIES ANOTHER BANK, LET ME KNOW.
I’LL BURN THEM NEXT. 🔥
He replied almost instantly.
U COLD.
I LOVE IT. 😎
Me too. Because power? Tasted better than revenge. But both? Together?
Delicious.
Venice POV
What the hell?
I slammed the tablet on the marble counter of my walk-in closet, sending my cappuccino splashing onto my silk robe. I didn’t even flinch. My phone kept vibrating—texts from investors, fashion show coordinators, suppliers all demanding answers. And money.
A few months ago, Venice Luxe was on the cover of every fashion magazine. "The New Heiress of Haute Couture!" “A Modern Midas with a Needle.” Now?
Now I was begging for breathing room.
Two banks. Two fucking banks just declined my loan. Me. Venice McLaren. Do they know who I am? Or rather—who I used to be?
I tried calling my father three times, but stopped each time before it connected. No. I couldn't. His blood pressure was already skyrocketing from the mess at the Cigar Empire. And mother? Don’t get me started. She was too busy ordering fake Birkin bags in bulk and trying to pass them off to old money clients.
I grabbed my Yves Saint Laurent purse, cursed as I realized the leather was cracking—cracking!—and stormed out of the house.
The bank's marble lobby had never looked colder. Or maybe it was me. My red-bottom heels clacked sharply against the tile as I approached the front desk. “Where is Mr. Alwin Jr?” I snapped. The receptionist—a new girl with an annoying plastic smile—told me he was in a meeting.
“I am the meeting,” I hissed, pushing past her. I didn’t come here to be turned down again.
Inside his glass office, Mr. Alwin Jr was sipping espresso, seated like he owned the goddamn world. “Miss McLaren,” he said with an overly polite smile. “How can I help you today?”
I leaned forward, both palms pressed on his desk. “I need the bridge loan approved. The same one we discussed last week. You said it was just a matter of paperwork.”
He didn’t flinch, just typed something on his keyboard and turned the screen toward me. “I’m afraid your credit evaluation has changed. And after speaking with the board—”
“The board?” I laughed—dry and bitter. “I’ve banked here since I was seventeen. I hosted your wife’s charity gala. You named your daughter after me.”
“And we appreciate your loyalty, Miss McLaren.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “But unfortunately, one of our VIP clients issued a condition. If we approve any McLaren account for new credit, they will be withdrawing their entire deposit.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Ten million dollars,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’m sure you understand, it’s a priority clientele situation.”
I stood there, cold creeping up my spine. Who the hell would do that? Ten million dollars? That could buy a small country.
“Who is it?” I demanded.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
I wanted to scream. To flip the entire desk and watch his espresso splash on his expensive shoes. But instead, I adjusted my sunglasses and gave him a tight smile.
“You just lost a future Forbes cover girl,” I said.
And walked out with my head held high, even though my lungs were caving in.
Outside, I sat in my car, shaking. “Who the hell is screwing me over?” I whispered.
I drove like a maniac.
Not even the roads of downtown could slow me down—red lights blurred past, horns honked, pedestrians jumped back onto sidewalks. Let them. Let the whole world get out of my way. I had a brand to save. A company. A legacy.
I parked in front of Venice Luxe Headquarters—the modern glass building I once boasted about during cocktail parties. “A temple of vision,” I told Vogue. “My kingdom of silk and ambition.”
Now it felt like a mausoleum.
I stormed into the lobby, expecting the usual clatter of heels, the click of keyboards, the faint scent of espresso and expensive perfume that came from a room full of ambitious interns and stylists fighting to please me.
Silence.
The reception desk was empty. The showroom lights were off. Even the goddamn scent diffusers were unplugged.
My heels echoed like gunshots as I walked to the elevator and up to the top floor—my office.
Empty.
The mannequins wore the last collection like corpses dressed for a funeral. Racks were bare. The mood board still had pins from last season. The lights were cold. The coffee machine blinked: ERROR – CLEAN FILTER.
“Where the hell is everyone?” I barked, slamming my bag on the table. I picked up the intercom. Nothing.
I opened our internal team chat on my phone.
Unread messages. Excuses. Sick leaves. Personal emergencies. Vague apologies. Some didn’t even bother to reply.
They knew.
They smelled the blood in the water. Just like vultures.
And the worst part?
They didn’t even have the decency to pretend anymore.
I threw the phone across the office. It bounced off the glass wall and shattered on the marble floor. “Cowards!” I screamed. “All of you! You think I’m done? You think I’m weak?!”
I kicked a chair. I pulled a rack down. I collapsed onto the floor surrounded by pieces of the empire I built with my name.
Tears threatened—but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t. Not yet.
Because none of this made sense.
One moment, I was everywhere—on talk shows, in magazine spreads, swarmed by influencers begging for PR kits. And now? Radio silence. Cancelled shows. Distributors ghosting me. Two banks rejecting me. My own team abandoning ship.
This wasn’t just bad luck.
This was engineered.
But who?
Who the hell would dare move against me with this kind of precision?
It couldn’t be my competitors—they were too obvious. Too shallow. They didn't have the reach or the subtlety.
And I didn’t even know whose game I was losing.
But whoever it was—they were good.
They didn’t just sabotage me.
They made me unravel myself.