A text from Mr. Henderson was waiting:
Happy Birthday, Chloe. A gift from the courts: Your hearing for Arthur is set for one month from today. We’ve sent the forensic team into Landry Holdings to begin the takeover of his position. It won’t be smooth—he has loyalists in every department—but the investigation is officially underway. Pinellas County prosecutors are also reviewing your mother’s case and the chemical restraint charges concerning you. You were never prescribed the meds they gave you. Come by my office when you’re back in Florida. The birthday present youasked for is waiting at the dealership; address attached. Enjoy it.
A scream ripped out of my throat before I could stop it. I bounced on the mattress, the springs squeaking in rhythm with my joy. Two weeks had passed since the bookstore incident, and the world had turned upside down for me. My blog had blown up overnight. I had reporters calling my burner phone at all hours for interviews, and TikTok was flooded with creators analyzing every poem I’d ever written, looking for more hidden messages. The "Doll" was dead; Chloe Landry was alive.
The bedroom door flew open. Killian charged in, his hand on the gun in the holster he wasn't wearing, his eyes scanning for a threat. He was fully dressed in a dark tactical shirt and jeans, looking ready to clear the room.
“Chloe? What is it? What happened?”
“I’m sorry!” I laughed, breathless, clutching the phone to my chest. “I’m sorry for startling you. I’m just… I’m fucking rich, and I made it to my twenty-fifth birthday alive.”
The tension in his shoulders bled out, replaced by a slow, shaking head. “God, little ghost. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“I’m going to get dressed,” I said, jumping off the bed with energy I’d never felt before. I landed in front of him, grabbed his face, and gave him a hard, quick kiss on his thick lips. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I flew into the closet and pulled out a white linen set—a cropped vest and wide-leg trousers that made me look like a summer breeze. I was in my phoenix era. I got dressed and pulled Killian downstairs.
I ran into the kitchen to speak, Killian’s grandfather was sitting at the table with his morning coffee and the paper—like a real paper, not a phone or tablet. I leaned down and kissed the top of his white head.
“Good morning, Grandpa Silas! Look at you, looking handsome this morning.”
The old man chuckled, patting my hand. “Sweet Talker, Happy Birthday, child. Killian said you all are on your way out, I’ve got something for you when you get back.”
“You’re the best,” I said, already walking out of the kitchen heading for the front door.
Killian was right behind me, his keys in hand. I slid into the passenger seat of the Range Rover and held out my phone with the address my lawyer had sent. “Drive.”
We pulled up to a high-end dealership in downtown New Orleans. The glass front gleamed under the Louisiana sun. Before we even hopped out, a man in a bespoke suit stepped onto the lot.
“You must be Chloe,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Andre. Mr. Henderson said to expect you.”
“I’m Chloe. This is Killian.”
Andre nodded to Killian, then gestured toward the showroom floor. “Follow me. We just finished the detailing.”
He led us to a cordoned-off area where a beast sat waiting. It was a brand-new Aston Martin Vanquish. Black on black. The paint was so deep it looked like liquid onyx, and the carbon fiber accents made it look less like a car and more like a predator.
Killian let out a low, long whistle, his eyes raking over the sleek lines of the hood. “This is a hell of a birthday present to yourself, Chloe.”
I turned to him, my smile widening. “No,” I said softly. “This isn’t my birthday present to myself. This is my birthday present to you.”
Killian froze. He looked from me to the car, his jaw dropping. “What? No. Chloe, absolutely not. I’m not taking a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car from you.”
“It’s four hundred thousand, and you aren't taking it,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m giving it. You did everything for me when I had nothing. Now I have everything. Take the keys, Killian.”
“I can’t,” he insisted, sounding genuinely pained. “Take it back. Trade it for something you want.”
I was about to remind him I couldn’t drive.
Andre, the dealer, leaning against a nearby pillar and looking amused, spoke up. “Sir, with all due respect, if a woman who had money and looks like hers buys you an Aston Martin, you don't argue. You just drive.”
I stepped into Killian’s personal space, the scent of new car smell and his cologne mixing in the air. I leaned up, my lips brushing against the shell of his ear.
“It’s going to rain tonight,” I whispered, my voice a low, wicked purr. “And my birthday present to myself is having you fuck me in it, bent over this car, while the storm hits the glass.”
Beside us, Andre let out a sudden, violent cough, nearly choking on his own spit as he scrambled to look at his clipboard.
Killian’s eyes darkened instantly. The gray turned to charcoal, his gaze dropping to my mouth. He looked at the car, then back at me, his hand finally reaching out to take the key fob from Andre.
