She didn't call. She didn't write an email. She marched. Dressed in her flour-streaked jeans, a simple t-shirt, and a fury that could have powered the entire city grid, Chloe Reed walked the ten blocks to the gleaming, obelisk-like Thorne Tower. She pushed through the revolving doors into the cavernous, marble-clad lobby, a space designed to intimidate. Polished, imposing security guards in tailored uniforms moved to intercept her. "I'm here to see Marcus Thorne," she stated, her voice clear and steady, not wavering.
"You don't have an appointment," one guard said, a smirk playing on his lips as he took in her attire. She locked eyes with him, her gaze fierce and unwavering. "Tell him," she said, each word a hammer strike, "that Chloe Reed is here. From the Daily Grind." Something in her tone—the absolute certainty, the suppressed rage—made the guard hesitate. He exchanged a glance with his partner, then spoke quietly into his comms unit. There was a long, static-filled pause. Then a stunned, slightly distorted voice came back. "Send her up. Penthouse express. Now."
The elevator ride was a silent, soaring ascent into the heart of her own heartbreak. The doors opened not into a lobby, but directly into the vast, minimalist expanse of his living space. He was there, standing in the middle of the room, as if waiting for a verdict. He was dressed in a suit that probably cost as much as her father's medical debt, but his face was pale, stripped bare of all its billionaire armor. He looked vulnerable, exposed. "Chloe, I—" "Save it," she cut him off, her voice like shards of glass. She strode forward and threw the crum