CHAPTER 13

Chloe might have been only eight years old, but she was far too clever for her age—clever enough to be dangerous.

She was a wolf in sheep's clothing, her innocent appearance hiding the whirlwind of chaos that constantly brewed in her small, scheming mind.

Right now, standing in my apartment, she was eyeing the new things I'd brought in like a hawk. Suspicion clouded her bright eyes as she crossed her arms and leaned forward.

"Are you," she began with a dramatic pause, pointing at herself for emphasis, "one of those guys who kidnaps young, cute, innocent girls like me"—she puffed out her chest proudly—"and sells them to old, stinky men for money?"

Her squinting eyes and serious expression were an almost comical attempt at intimidation.

Her face was so absurdly funny that I couldn't stop myself. Laughter exploded out of me, uncontrollable and gut-wrenching.

I laughed so hard that I couldn't stay upright, clutching my stomach as I collapsed onto the floor, tears brimming in my eyes.

Chloe watched me with a confused expression, her little nose scrunched up as if trying to figure out why I was laughing so much.

Her bewildered face only reignited my amusement, and I found myself laughing all over again.

"Hmph," she huffed, clearly unimpressed by my reaction. "I asked a serious question, and you're just laughing?

That's suspicious. Now I'm sure you're one of those bad guys. Are you going to sell me?" Her attempt at a "serious" face, complete with a tiny pout, nearly sent me spiraling back into laughter, but I managed to rein it in.

I sat up, wiping my eyes and trying to catch my breath. "Chloe," I said, still chuckling, "what kind of ideas do you come up with in that little head of yours?"

It took a solid ten minutes to convince her that I wasn't part of some nefarious trafficking ring.

Deep down, she knew it wasn't true—her parents were powerful enough that even the thought of someone trying to sell their daughter was ludicrous.

But that didn't stop her from running wild with her theories.

"Are you just going to stay in your house all day?" she asked suddenly, her eyes wide and expectant.

I tilted my head, smiling faintly. "What do you have in mind?"

Her answering grin was too wide, too bright, too mischievous. It sent an immediate chill down my spine.

That smile meant trouble, and I knew it. I'd walked right into her trap.

..................

It was 3:47 p.m., and I was officially exhausted.

Chloe had dragged me all over Los Angeles as though the city was her personal playground.

We'd gone to the park, the cinema to watch a cartoon, a five-star hotel, a science research center, the beach—and now, somehow, we were standing in front of a casino.

A casino.

"Chloe," I groaned, "you're eight. You're not even allowed in there."

"I know," she said nonchalantly. "I just wanted to see it."

The worst part was that this pattern had been repeating all day. She'd demand we go to some new, ridiculous place, only to decide it was boring after I paid for tickets or food or entry. "Let's go somewhere else," she'd say with a shrug, as if my wallet were bottomless.

Now, standing in front of the casino's ornate doors, I couldn't hold back anymore. "What's up with you today?" I asked, exasperated.

Without missing a beat, she replied, "Since you're rich from selling young, cute girls like me, you have to spoil me. Or I'll tell the police."

My jaw dropped. "What? I thought we were over that!"

Apparently not. This whole day had been a game, and I was just her pawn. I sighed, shaking my head.

Women were dangerous—this much I knew—but Chloe was on another level.

Even at eight years old, she could outmaneuver me without breaking a sweat.

"This place sucks," she declared suddenly. "Let's go to the supermarket."

.........................

At the supermarket, Chloe grabbed a cart and immediately began piling it with random items.

She pushed it around with all the authority of someone twice her age, while I trailed behind, resigned to my fate.

Leaning against the counter to wait for her, I caught the attention of a blonde woman wearing the store's uniform. Her bright smile was warm and inviting.

"You really love your daughter," she said with a hint of amusement.

I blinked. "Oh, she's not my daughter."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Really? You two act so much alike. How are you related?"

"We're not, actually," I said with a faint smile. "You could say she's... a friend."

The blonde woman, whose name tag read Linda, gave me a dubious look. "You're not? But you look alike."

"Just a coincidence," I replied, steering the conversation away. "Do you work here?"

"Nope," she said, brushing her hair back. "I own the place. But sometimes I like to come down and help out—it reminds me of my mom. Plus, it's nice to interact with people."

She was stunning, with smooth skin, big expressive eyes, and curves that didn't belong in a supermarket.

If anything, she looked more suited to first-class flights as a stewardess.

Before I could think of a smooth reply, Chloe returned, pushing a cart stacked high with groceries. She was struggling under the weight, but she gritted her teeth and kept going until she reached us.

Linda laughed at the sight. "She's determined, I'll give her that."

I shook my head, already dreading the bill. Scanning the cart, my eyes landed on a pack of razors. "Shavers? Seriously? What are you going to shave?"

Chloe gave me a deadpan look. "I'm keeping them until I'm old enough. Duh."

"That's, what, eight years from now? Why a whole packet?"

Linda burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Chloe, however, wasn't fazed.

As I tried to figure out how to argue with an eight-year-old about hoarding razors, my phone buzzed. Glancing at the caller ID, I sighed.

Chloe immediately started shaking her head, mouthing no vigorously.

Ignoring her, I answered. "Hello, ma'am."

A familiar, sweet voice chuckled on the other end. "Jack, I told you, it's okay to call me Eva."

"That wouldn't be appropriate, Eva," I replied, smirking.

"Always so formal," she teased. "Let me guess—Chloe's with you."

I hesitated. "Um... I thought she'd asked for permission this time."

"Not even close," Eva said, laughing. "Her music teacher called me earlier. She skipped class again."

I glanced at Chloe, who was now whistling and avoiding eye contact.

"Anyway," Eva or sometimes Betha, continued, "just bring her home when you're done."

"Will do," I said, hanging up.

Turning to Chloe, I raised an eyebrow. "Mind explaining?"

She gave me a sheepish smile, scratching the back of her head. When that didn't work, she tried a different tactic. "Do you want a hug?"

I stared at her, deadpan. "Seriously?"