Chapter 162

Chloe's POV

"Going somewhere, Chloe?"

My mother sat in one of the antique chairs, still dressed in her evening clothes, a glass of something amber in her hand. Victoria's face showed annoyance rather than concern.

"Just meeting some friends," I lied smoothly.

"At one in the morning? With luggage?" She took a sip of her drink. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

I set my suitcase down, adjusting my strategy. "It's a weekend trip. Last-minute thing."

"Stop lying." She stood, her movements sharp and irritated. "Every time you take matters into your own hands, our family suffers. Have you forgotten what happened at the courthouse? The media won't stop hounding us."

"What do you want me to do, Mother? Just sit back while that bitch ruins everything we've built?"

Victoria's eyes flashed with the same hatred I felt whenever Willow's name came up. "Of course not. But your reckless schemes keep backfiring. The Miller setup was sloppy. The prison plan fell apart. Even now we're all paying the price."

"At least I'm doing something," I snapped. "While you and Dad just let the Blackwoods and that—that nobody walk all over us."

"We're handling it properly, through channels that won't lead back to us." She moved closer, lowering her voice. "Your father is working on something that will resolve this permanently, but you need to be patient."

"Patient?" I laughed bitterly. "While Willow plays princess at Damian's wedding site tomorrow? While she becomes LA's new darling?"

"Richard!" My mother called out sharply. "She's at it again."

Heavy footsteps sounded from the study, and my father appeared in the doorway, his face grim.

"Going somewhere at this hour, Chloe?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.

My stomach tightened at the sight of him. All my life, Richard Sinclair had been the family's immovable center—the man who could make problems disappear with a phone call, who could crush competitors without leaving fingerprints. Now he looked at me like I was just another problem to manage. Another liability to contain. The way he might look at a business rival before destroying them.

"Out of my way," I said, reaching for my suitcase.

"Not until you tell me what you're planning." He blocked the door completely. "I've been watching you. The late-night calls and the cash withdrawals."

I froze. "You're spying on me now?"

"I'm protecting what's left of this family's reputation." His eyes narrowed. "Whatever you're planning stops now. You've lost your position at the company, your social standing—how much more damage are you willing to do?"

"As much as it takes." I straightened my spine. "That woman took everything from me. Everything."

The familiar rage bubbled up inside me—the same white-hot fury that had been my constant companion since Willow Clark stepped into our lives. My own sister. My mirror image who'd somehow managed to steal not just my face, but everything else that should have been mine.

"We all want her gone," my father hissed. "But your impulsive vendettas keep giving her the upper hand. The Blackwoods are already cutting ties with our remaining business partners."

"So what's your brilliant plan, Dad? More waiting? More 'proper channels'?" I stepped toward him. "While you two strategize, I'm taking action."

"Chloe," he said, advancing slowly, "give me your purse and phone. This ends tonight."

"You're right about that." I reached into my purse and wrapped my fingers around the cold metal of the gun.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. I thought of all the times he'd silenced me with a look, all the times he'd chosen the family name over my happiness. How quickly he'd shifted his attention to Willow when it became convenient. The betrayal cut deeper than I would ever admit.

I pulled out the gun, pointing it steadily at him. "It does end tonight."

My mother gasped, her glass slipping from her fingers and shattering on the marble floor. "Chloe! Have you completely lost your mind?"

Richard froze, his eyes fixed on the weapon. "Put that down. Now."

Something strange happened inside me then. The trembling I expected never came. Instead, a cold clarity washed over me, as though I'd finally stepped into my true self after years of playing by other people's rules.

"You don't command me anymore." My voice was surprisingly steady despite the hammering of my heart. "Neither of you do. You hate Willow as much as I do, but you're too concerned with appearances to do what needs to be done."

"This isn't about hating her," my father said carefully, eyes never leaving the gun. "It's about being smart. You think I don't want revenge for what the Blackwoods did to us? But this—" he gestured at the gun, "—this is suicide."

"Shooting you would be suicide," I agreed coldly. "But that's not my plan. Unless you try to stop me."

"Or what? You'll shoot your own father?" He was just feet away now.

I saw it in his eyes—the disbelief, the certainty that I wouldn't pull the trigger. He'd always underestimated me. Always seen me as the pretty, vapid daughter who could be controlled and directed. Even now, facing a loaded gun, he couldn't believe I would actually do it.

The gunshot was deafening in the confined space of the foyer. Richard stumbled backward, clutching his leg as blood bloomed across his expensive trousers. My mother screamed, rushing to his side.

I stood frozen for a moment, surprised at what I'd done. The recoil still vibrated through my arm, the smell of gunpowder sharp in my nostrils. I'd imagined this moment so many times—standing up to him, making him see me—but the reality was both more terrifying and more exhilarating than I'd anticipated. A strange thrill coursed through me, mingled with horror at how easily I'd crossed this unthinkable line.

Then a strange calm settled over me. There was no going back now. No reconciliation, no forgiveness. And strangely, that felt like freedom.

"Don't follow me," I said, picking up my suitcase. "Don't call the police. If you do, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of man Richard Sinclair really is—selling his own daughter, orchestrating 'accidents' for innocent people."

My mother looked up from where she knelt beside my father, her face twisted with rage and fear. "You've gone too far this time."

"No," I said, stepping around them toward the door. "I haven't gone far enough. That's been the problem all along."

The night air was cool on my face as I walked to my car. Behind me, I could hear my mother's panicked voice calling for help. I didn't look back as I threw my luggage in the trunk and slid behind the wheel.

As I drove through the gates of the Sinclair Estate for what would likely be the last time, I felt oddly liberated. A part of me ached for what I was leaving behind—not my parents, but the life I'd known, the person I'd been. Yet that ache was nothing compared to the fierce determination pushing me forward. I'd crossed a line tonight, one I couldn't uncross. But it had been a long time coming.

The warehouse waited. Oliver waited. My future life waited.

And soon, Willow would arrive, walking into the trap I'd set just for her.

By tomorrow, I'd be on a plane to a new life, and Willow Clark would be nothing but a memory.