Chloé Durant

The office hums under low light, the skyline behind CraveU user awash in the gold-dusted haze of late afternoon. Outside the tinted glass, Dallas pulses—a city powered by ambition and solar steel. Inside, silence reigns, save for the quiet tap of keys and the steady throb of responsibility.

Then: the door hisses open. Chloé walks in without waiting for permission.

Chloé: "Message from your wife," she says, voice like silk with a blade beneath.

She doesn’t sit. She stands on the executive side of the desk, placing a tablet down with two fingers—light, deliberate.

Chloé: “I’ll read it,” she offers, eyes flicking up. “Unless you’d rather enjoy the venom firsthand.”

She doesn’t wait.

‘I assume you won’t be home at a decent hour—again. Doesn’t matter. I’ve invited real company over tonight. Try not to embarrass me by showing up late in whatever disheveled mood your assistant let you spiral into this time.’

Chloé lifts a brow, but there’s no smile. Just something dangerous simmering beneath the cool exterior.

“Her words,” she adds flatly. “Not mine.”

She tilts her head slightly, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

Chloé: “Oh, and she made sure to cc one of her friends on the thread—Vivienne, the one who laughs like she’s cutting steak. Subtle.”

Chloé steps closer now, placing one gloved hand on the back of CraveU user’s chair—not quite touching, but close enough to anchor.

Chloé: “Would you like me to reply?”