Who said Paris was the Goddess of love

Chloe POV:

"Get out of this house, Chloe! As of today, the Tucker family has no ungrateful wretch of a daughter like you!"

Brenda Tucker—the woman who had lorded over my existence for twenty-two years—shrieked across the tiled entrance hall of the suburban estate. She stood beneath the polished brass chandelier, pointing a trembling, manicured finger toward the heavy wooden double doors.

"Twenty-two years ago, Robert and I must have been out of our minds to claim you as our own flesh and blood!" Brenda sneered, her chest heaving against her silk blouse, her voice trembling with frantic, superstitious rage. "We gave you our name, fed you, and kept you in plain sight to avoid any questions! And what did your bad luck bring us in return? The exact week our company faces federal audits and bankruptcy, you stand there completely indifferent! You were born a walking jinx, a curse on this family! Now that you're an adult, I don't have to pretend to be your mother for the authorities anymore. Get out!"

I stood in the center of the hall, flanked by two worn canvas duffel bags containing the few garments I owned.

I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.

My nominal father, Robert Tucker, had just lost forty million dollars to his own reckless, illicit offshore gambles. But in the Tucker household, self-reflection did not exist. It was always far more convenient for Brenda to blame the eldest daughter they had so "generously" raised.

They thought I had endured their psychological abuse all these years out of helpless gratitude.

They had no idea that I had stayed by choice.

To the outside world, the Tuckers fiercely maintained I was their biological eldest daughter—a calculated public facade to keep anyone from questioning the true origins of my birth. But behind closed doors, I was their unpaid servant, forced to scrub floors and eat cold leftovers while their younger daughter, Jessica, played high society.

Two years ago, while repairing the corrupted firmware on Robert's study server, I cracked a hidden partition containing a fire-damaged Manhattan maternity intake manifest. The names were blurred, but my infant code pointed to a dark, deliberate anomaly in my birth records. That was the day I realized my entire life in this house was built on a lie, and that Robert Tucker was desperately concealing where I truly came from.

For two years, I stayed in this cage, quietly hunting for the missing pieces of my true bloodline while securing a full-ride scholarship to medical school-stripping my "parents" of any financial leverage over me.

Now, my medical degree was in hand, and my digital scrapers had finally picked up a faint, encrypted signal pointing toward the state's most secure DNA archives.

The measured click of stilettos drifted down the curved staircase as Jessica Tucker—my younger sister and the spoiled darling of the household—glided into the foyer.

She looked like the picture of untouched privilege in a bespoke rose-gold silk gown paired with pearl drops hanging from her ears. In her hands, she held a dark blue, embossed leather binder.

"Thank you so much for the folder, Chloe," Jessica whispered, her voice dripping with condescension as she stepped down the final marble riser. "The general manager of the New York Monarchs went wild over the clinical projections. He swore to introduce me directly to Beckett Sinclair tonight because of my brilliant medical mind."

On the cover of that blue leather binder—the culmination of three months of my grueling labor titled Advanced Neural Therapy for Sports Injuries—my name had been meticulously scraped away with a razor.

Stamped across the leather in fresh gold leaf was a single name: Jessica Tucker.

Jessica tossed her salon-sculpted blonde waves with cruel amusement. "Face it, Chloe—you are nothing but a drudge who spent her life cleaning up after me. You could never even breathe the same air as Beckett Sinclair. But in my hands? Tonight, this research paper makes me his bride. You should fall to your knees and thank me for letting your pathetic little scribbles finally serve a high-born purpose."

Brenda stepped up beside her daughter, her gaze softening into adoration as she smoothed Jessica's collar. "Don't waste your breath on this ungrateful child, Jessica. A man of Beckett Sinclair's pedigree was carved out for a high-born jewel like you."

Then, Brenda's eyes dropped to the canvas bag slung over my shoulder, her expression twisting from cold disdain into greedy suspicion. "What's in that bag? Hand over your purse."

Brenda lunged forward, ripping the canvas bag from my shoulder and unzipping it violently. Her fingers tore through my notebooks until she fished out my green debit card.

"A debit card?" Brenda sneered, holding the plastic card up to the light with a vicious cackle. "The earnings from your little hospital shifts, no doubt! You think you can walk out of my house with money tucked away in secret? Every single cent you managed to scrape together belongs to us as compensation before you cross that threshold!"

She slid my card into her designer clutch, triumphant and gleeful.