The Rejected Jinx Is A Billionaire Heiress

Chloe POV:

The heavy front door had barely shut behind me when the sound of frantic, uneven footsteps slapped against the wet asphalt of the driveway.

"Chloe! Wait! Stop!"

I paused under the cold amber wash of the streetlamp, my hands resting on the handles of my duffel bags. I slowly turned.

Robert Tucker was jogging toward me, clutching his chest, his face pale and slick with sweat. For a fleeting, pathetic second, an echo of the little girl who once craved a father's approval wondered if he was coming to apologize.

He stopped two feet away, wheezing. "Chloe... the Sinclairs. You still have a way to contact Arthur Sinclair Sr., don't you?"

The last ember of hope in my chest turned to cold ash. Of course. It was never about me. It was only about his sinking ship.

"No," I said, my voice cutting through the damp night air like steel. "I don't."

Robert lunged forward, his eyes bloodshot with desperation. "Don't lie to me! Five years ago, at that charity gala, old man Sinclair personally spoke to you! He praised your composure! If you just call his private office, put in one good word for Tucker Logistics—"

"Five years ago, you made me wear a maid's uniform and serve champagne while Jessica played princess in the VIP lounge," I interrupted, my gaze pinning him to the spot. "I was seventeen. I spoke three polite sentences to an elderly man while refilling his water glass. I have no connection to the Sinclairs, Robert. And even if I did, why aren't you asking your precious jewel, Jessica? Isn't she the one destined to marry Beckett Sinclair tonight?"

Robert flinched, the color draining entirely from his cheeks.

Before he could speak, the shrill click of designer heels echoed down the stone steps. Brenda came marching down the driveway, clutching her fur wrap, her face twisted in rage.

"Robert! Have you lost your mind?" she shrieked, grabbing his sleeve. "Why are you begging this jinx? Stop embarrassing yourself in the street! With Jessica at the gala tonight, Beckett Sinclair will have our family backed by billions by sunrise!"

Right on cue, the sharp, harsh vibration of Robert's phone tore through the tension.

Robert reached into his pocket with a trembling hand, pressing the device to his ear. "Hello? Mr. Davis... yes, the collateral is—"

His jaw fell open. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.

"Davis? No, no, you can't liquidate us! Forty million by midnight?! Davis, please, give me until tomorrow—Davis! Don't hang up!"

The dead dial tone was loud enough for all of us to hear.

Robert's knees buckled. He looked like a corpse that had just been dragged out of a river. The house of cards was falling, not next week, not tomorrow, but tonight.

Brenda stared at him, her eyes wide with mounting hysteria. Then, like a rabid animal backed into a corner, she whipped her head toward me, pointing a manicured, shaking finger.

"It's her!" Brenda screamed, her voice bordering on madness. "The second she stepped out that door, the liquidation came! She brought this curse upon our house! You little devil—"

Brenda lunged at me, her hand raised to strike across my cheek.

I didn't cower. I didn't even flinch. As her hand came down, I simply stepped half an inch to the left.

Brenda swung at empty air. Her spiked heel caught in the gravel, and with an ungraceful, bone-jarring shriek, she crashed sideways into the manicured rhododendron bushes, her pearls snapping and scattering across the driveway like hail.

"Mom!" Jessica's panicked voice drifted from the front porch.

Robert dropped to his knees to pull Brenda out of the dirt, both of them screaming curses at the night sky.

I didn't waste another breath on them. I picked up my bags, turned on my heel, and walked briskly down the tree-lined street toward the public intersection.

The quiet suburban night swallowed their vulgar shouting.

My phone vibrated sharply in the palm of my hand.

I pulled it out. It was a text message from the same unlisted number that had called me earlier today:

Miss Chloe, your biological parents have searched for you for twenty-two years. We confirmed the DNA match from your medical licensing file this afternoon. I am holding your St. Jude infant intake record #0824. My name is Walter. I am waiting at the corner of the boulevard to bring you home. Please come to the north curb.

My breath caught in my throat.

St. Jude infant intake record #0824.

That was a private number only written on the yellowed card inside my baby blanket. No scammer could possibly know that number.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs.

Could it really be true? Did I actually have parents out there who were looking for me?

I squeezed my phone tightly, picked up my bags, and hurried toward the intersection as the evening mist gathered under the streetlamps.

When I reached the corner, a vehicle was parked beneath a flickering light.

It was an ancient, faded Ford pickup truck with rust creeping along the fenders and a cracked side mirror held together by black tape.

Leaning against the hood was an older man with silver hair and a deeply lined, tranquil face, wearing a plain, faded wool jacket.

When his eyes met mine, a look of profound, emotional warmth crossed his weathered face, and he slowly stood up straight.