Chloe's Revenge

Untitled Episode

[ Chloe's pov ]

The way he had brushed my parents off was the only satisfying thing that had happened in my entire miserable life.

Before we left, Mark had practically tripped over his own feet trying to shake Julian Sterling’s hand on the tarmac, grinning like a sycophantic i***t, while my mother stood in the background trying to thrust Megan forward into the light. Dad had started some pathetic, rambling speech about "family values" and "bonds."

Sterling hadn't even looked at them. He didn't take Mark's hand. He didn't look at Megan, who was practically throwing herself at him with a fake, desperate smile. He had just looked right past them, his eyes locking onto me and my battered canvas rucksack.

*“Get in the car,”* he had said. His voice was like ice cutting through glass. Cold. Absolute.

He didn't say goodbye to them, and neither did I. As the car pulled away from the curb, I saw Megan in the wing mirror, her face twisted into a sour, ugly scowl. *Let the b***h enjoy doing her own washing up for once,* I thought, a sudden, sharp spike of anger flaring in my chest before the reality of my situation swallowed me whole again.

Now, the silence inside the back of the massive sedan was completely suffocating.

The partition between the front and back seats was down, but it might as well have been a brick wall. Julian Sterling sat in the leather seat adjacent to mine, typing away furiously on a sleek, matte-black tablet. He didn't look at me. He hadn't muttered a single word since we left the estate.

I sat pressed against the passenger door, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. My knuckles were white from how hard I was gripping the strap of my rucksack. Slowly, carefully, I tilted my head up just enough to look at the rearview mirror.

I caught a proper glimpse of his face. The rumors hadn't lied about his age; he was remarkably young, with a sharp, aristocratic jawline and dark hair styled with absolute precision. But his eyes were what froze the blood in my veins. They were a piercing, stormy gray.

Suddenly, those gray eyes shifted in the mirror. He caught me looking.

Our gaze met for a fraction of a second, and a jolt of pure panic shot through my chest. *Fuck.* I dropped my chin instantly, staring down at my worn-out trainers, my heart hammering against my ribs. I braced myself for him to snap at me, to tell me to know my place, but the silence just stretched on, heavy and mocking.

We drove for what felt like hours, leaving the grimy, cramped high streets of the inner city behind as the concrete slowly gave way to wide, tree-lined avenues and massive, gated properties.

"Are you hungry?"

The sudden sound of his voice made me flinch so hard my rucksack slipped from my lap onto the floor. I froze. The question was so unexpected, so entirely detached from the cold atmosphere of the car, that my brain completely stalled. I hesitated, my mouth opening and closing without a sound. *Say something, you i***t, don't piss him off.*

"N-no," I finally stammered, the word coming out in a breathless, shaking whisper. "No, thank you."

Sterling didn't look up from his tablet. He didn't acknowledge my answer, didn't ask if I was sure. He just kept typing. The brief flicker of communication was over, leaving me wondering if I had already ruined whatever weird terms this arrangement was built on.

A few miles later, the car slowed down.

I looked out the window as we approached a pair of towering, wrought-iron black gates. They were massive, easily twice the height of the car, and topped with sharp, defensive spikes. As the sedan approached, the gates groaned open automatically, admitting us into a sprawling estate.

The house itself was intimidating. It wasn't an old, crumbling castle; it was a masterpiece of modern, brutalist architecture—all sharp lines, dark stone, and massive panels of tinted glass. It looked less like a home and more like a private fortress meant to keep the entire world out.

The car came to a smooth halt under a grand concrete canopy. Before the engine had even fully cut out, the front passenger door opened, and an older man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit stepped forward.

Julian Sterling opened his own door and stepped out into the cool air, not waiting for anyone.

"Welcome back, Mr. Sterling," the older man said, bowing his head slightly.

"Take her things, Arthur," Sterling replied, his voice flat as he walked straight past the man and into the house without a single backward glance. He didn't check to see if I was following. He just moved inside like a ghost returning to its tomb.

The older man—Arthur—turned to me as I awkwardly scrambled out of the back seat, clutching my rucksack. He looked at my faded jeans, my oversized jumper, and the cheap canvas bag in my hand, but his expression remained entirely polite, devoid of the judgment I was so used to seeing.

"Good afternoon, Miss Chloe," Arthur said, offering a small, reassuring smile as he reached for my bag. "Allow me to assist you with your luggage."

"I... I can carry it," I muttered, instinctively pulling it back.

"It is no trouble at all, miss. Please, follow me." His tone was gentle but firm.

I let him take the bag, feeling exposed and small as I stepped through the massive glass double doors into the entrance hall. The interior was breathtakingly vast, filled with polished marble floors that reflected the minimalist lighting above. It was spotless, cold, and quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

Julian Sterling was standing near the base of a sweeping floating staircase, his coat already gone. As I stepped closer, his stoic, unreadable expression suddenly shifted.

A slow, remarkably genuine smile spread across his handsome face—a sight so completely at odds with his ruthless reputation that it made me stop in my tracks.

"Welcome to your new home, Chloe," he said, his voice surprisingly warm as he gestured toward the stairs. "Let's show you to your room."