Chapter 8

Chloe's POV

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom suite, casting a golden glow across the Egyptian cotton sheets. I stretched languidly, enjoying the sensation of the thousand-dollar linens against my skin. Another perfect morning in the Sinclair Estate.

My phone buzzed with notifications—Instagram comments on last night's photo of me in my Valentino dress at the charity gala, several text messages from socialite "friends," and a calendar reminder about today's lunch with Father's business associates. The usual morning symphony of a Sinclair heiress.

I smiled, remembering Damian Blackwood's face at the hospital three days ago. The way his eyes had filled with gratitude when he believed I was the one who'd saved his life. The way he'd held my hand and promised me one million dollars as a reward.

"I don't want your money, Damian," I'd told him, lowering my eyes in practiced modesty. "True love cannot be measured by money."

He remained silent but did not refute—exactly the reaction I'd hoped for. Money was easy for men like Damian Blackwood. Gratitude was harder. And gratitude created opportunity.

"A strategic step," I murmured, sliding out of bed and walking to my dressing room. "Let him think I'm selfless and noble. Let him owe me. That's worth far more than one million."

My walk-in closet was larger than most people's apartments, filled with designer clothes organized by color and season. I ran my fingers along the silk blouses, contemplating what to wear for my next "accidental" encounter with Damian.

My phone rang, interrupting my planning. Oliver, my personal assistant.

"Good morning, Ms. Sinclair," he said, his voice unusually hesitant.

"What is it, Oliver? I don't have time for your awkward pauses."

"I... well, there's a rumor circulating that I thought you should know about. Regarding Mr. Blackwood."

I froze, my hand hovering over a Chanel jacket. "Go on."

"Apparently, last night at the Sunset Strip Lounge, Mr. Blackwood was seen... engaging with one of the dancers. In a private capacity."

"What does that mean, Oliver? Speak plainly."

I heard him swallow nervously. "The dancer known as 'Wildfire.' They were allegedly... intimate... in her dressing room."

The Chanel jacket slipped from my fingers to the floor. Wildfire. My worthless twin sister's stage name. Willow.

"That's impossible," I snapped. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's just gossip from one of my contacts at the lounge. I can't confirm—"

"Then why are you wasting my time with unconfirmed rumors?" I cut him off, my voice razor-sharp. "Do better research before you call me with this trash."

I hung up before he could apologize. My reflection in the mirror showed flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes. That little bitch. Of course she would try to ruin this for me.

After our parents discovered they were having twins, they'd only wanted one daughter. So they'd kept me—Chloe, the one who even as an infant displayed an innate grace and nobility. According to my mother, I barely cried, my eyes observing the world with a natural sophistication.

Meanwhile, Willow was like an untamed country girl from the start—all wild cries and unrefined movements. My parents, concerned with appearances and social standing, couldn't bear the thought of raising someone so... unpolished. So they sold her to some motorcycle mechanic and his wife, people they deemed more suited to raise a child of her unrefined disposition.

We shared identical DNA but completely different destinies. I was raised with private tutors and cotillion classes; she was raised changing oil and fixing engines.

We'd only reconnected two years ago when my brother needed a liver transplant and I wasn't a match.. Turned out my twin was. That was when she learned the truth about her origins—and when I realized how inconvenient her existence could be.

I threw on a casual-yet-expensive outfit and grabbed my car keys. Twenty minutes later, I was pulling my Mercedes into the parking lot of Angelino Courts, the shabby apartment complex where Willow lived. The contrast between our lives couldn't be more stark—from my family's estate to this depressing block of concrete with peeling paint.

I pounded on her door, but there was no answer. Of course. She'd be working her pathetic supermarket job.

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. She answered on the fourth ring.

"What do you want, Chloe?" Her voice sounded tired. Good.

"You shameless little slut," I hissed. "Did you think I wouldn't find out about you and Damian?"

There was a pause. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb. You spread your legs for him in some filthy dressing room. After I told you to stay awys from him!"

"Wait... is that what this is about?" She actually had the audacity to laugh. "You're not mad that I was assaulted. You're mad because you want Damian for yourself. That's why you stole my rescue story, isn't it?"

"Assault? Please. Everyone knows your reputation at that club. You probably threw yourself at him."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she said coldly.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about. Stay away from Damian Blackwood. He's mine."

"Yours?" Another laugh, but this one sounded different. Almost... vengeful. "That's not what he said when he had me pinned against the wall last night. Or when he was moaning my name. Or when—"

"Shut up!" I nearly screamed into the phone. "You're lying!"

"Am I? Why don't you ask him about it? Ask him what Wildfire tastes like. Ask him if he enjoyed our little... encounter."

My blood boiled. "You think you're so clever. You think because you have the same face as me, you can take what's mine? Let me remind you which one of us grew up with nothing. Which one of us has parents in the hospital who can't pay their bills."

"Don't you dare threaten my family," Willow's voice dropped dangerously low.

"I'm not threatening. I'm stating facts. The Sinclair Foundation has been covering part of Thomas and Maria's medical expenses. But generosity has limits."

"That was obtained by exchanging part of my liver, Chloe. You better not forget that."

I gripped the phone tighter. She was right, and I hated it. The last thing my family needed was for people to discover certain... arrangements... we'd made. Or that I'd taken credit for saving Damian Blackwood when it was actually my gutter-dwelling twin.

"Fine," I said, regaining my composure. "But consider this a warning. Cross me again, and your precious foster parents lose a month of coverage. See how well they do without their medications and treatments for thirty days."

I hung up before she could respond, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. My hands were shaking with rage. How dare she? How dare she threaten what was rightfully mine?

But it wasn't over. If Willow thought she could compete with me for Damian Blackwood, she was sadly mistaken. I was Chloe Sinclair. I was born to win.

And my pathetic twin sister was about to learn what happens when you challenge the queen.