“Sign over the house or the wedding is off!” she demanded. I refused. My son told me to apologize or leave. I smiled, walked out, and days later, their calls never stopped.

Across town, in the $4,000-a-month penthouse they were currently renting, Chloe was pacing the floor in a blind rage.

"What do you mean she cut you off?!" Chloe screamed, throwing a velvet throw pillow at David’s head. "The wedding is in three weeks! My parents already sent out the final invitations!"

David was slumped on the sofa, clutching his hair. "I mean I'm broke, Chloe! The trust is gone. The startup is dead. She even pulled the auto-pay on this apartment!"

Chloe’s face drained of color. The sweet, innocent act she usually put on for the public completely vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. "Fix it. Call her right now and apologize. Tell her we were just stressed about the wedding."

"I can't! She blocked me!"

"Then we'll go to the house," Chloe snapped, grabbing her designer purse. "She loves you too much to actually ruin your life. She's just throwing a tantrum to assert dominance. We go over there, you cry a little, you tell her you love her, and we get the money back."

David nodded weakly, desperate to believe her. They rushed down to the parking garage and hopped into David’s Range Rover. But when David hit the push-to-start button, the dashboard flashed red.

VEHICLE DISABLED. PLEASE CONTACT FINANCING DEPARTMENT.

"She didn't..." David whispered, horrified.