Chapter 5 - The Ashes in WestonThirty days later, the morning air in the affluent suburb of Weston was crisp and cold, painting the falling autumn leaves in brilliant shades of amber and gold.
I stood on the cobblestone driveway of a sprawling, multi-million-dollar stone estate—the very estate Marcus had proudly bragged about buying during my cousin’s wedding reception.
A massive yellow banner hung across the wrought-iron front gates: PUBLIC AUCTION - BANK FORECLOSURE AND ASSET LIQUIDATION.
Movers in blue overalls were hauling luxury furniture, oil paintings, and crystal chandeliers out of the front doors, loading them into heavy moving vans parked along the driveway.
Sitting on the stone steps near the entrance, surrounded by four cardboard boxes containing her personal clothes, was Chloe Vance.
Her designer dresses were gone, replaced by a simple, worn fleece jacket. Her manicured confidence had completely evaporated, leaving her looking thin, exhausted, and deeply bitter. Following Marcus’s arrest, federal prosecutors had seized the Weston estate, frozen all accounts associated with her Delaware shell companies, and repossessed the luxury sports car Marcus had bought her.
A black sedan pulled up to the curb, and I stepped out, wearing a tailored black wool coat, holding a leather folder.
Chloe looked up, her eyes widening in immediate, defensive fury as she saw me walking up the cobblestone path.
“Came to gloat, Evelyn?” Chloe spat out, her voice raspy. “Came to watch the total destruction of my life?”
I stopped three feet from her, looking down at her with quiet, unbothered pity.
“I didn't come to gloat, Chloe,” I said softly. “I came as the court-appointed receiver representing Rhodes Capital to finalize the asset seizure inventory.”
Chloe let out a harsh, bitter laugh, wiping a tear from her cheek. “You took everything! Marcus is facing twelve years in a federal penitentiary! His company is liquidated, his house is gone, and I’m standing on the street with four boxes of clothes!”
“Marcus took everything from himself, Chloe,” I corrected cleanly. “He chose to steal, he chose to defraud banks, and he chose to build a lifestyle on stolen money. You were simply more than happy to enjoy the theft as long as the champagne kept flowing.”
Chloe opened her mouth to hurl another bitter insult, but no words came out. She looked at me—at the calm, radiant, powerful woman standing before her—and realized with devastating clarity that she had traded her youth, her reputation, and her future for a man who was now sitting in a federal prison cell.
“Where will you go?” I asked quietly.
“Back to my parents’ place in Ohio,” Chloe muttered, staring down at her worn sneakers. “I have twenty-eight dollars in my checking account.”
I didn't smile. I didn't offer mock sympathy.
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“I hope you find a real life, Chloe,” I said gently. “One built on your own labor, rather than another woman’s husband.”
I turned on my heel and walked back to my sedan, leaving Chloe sitting alone on the cold stone steps as the auctioneer’s gavel struck the table inside her former mansion.
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