Chapter 15 - The Vanishing Act of Khloe CarterFar away from the boardrooms and glass towers, in a cramped, noisy industrial laundry facility in the East Bay, Khloe Carter heaved a heavy bundle of damp commercial linens into an industrial dryer.
Her hands, once manicured and adorned with designer rings, were now raw, chapped, and stained with commercial detergent. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and the designer red dress she had worn the night of the gala had long ago been sold at a consignment shop to pay for groceries.
The other workers didn't know who she was, and she certainly didn't tell them.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the echo of her own voice ringing through the Fairmont ballroom: “That woman’s husband belongs to me now, and everyone in this room knows it.”
She had traded a secure career, a comfortable future, and her own professional reputation for the hollow, fleeting thrill of a stolen man and a temporary crown. And when the music stopped, she was left standing alone in the dark, holding a microphone that had been permanently cut off from the world.
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A supervisor walked past her, slamming a clipboard against a metal table. "Carter! Less daydreaming, more folding! We have a hotel shipment due by five o’clock!"
Khloe blinked back hot tears of bitter regret, grabbed a stack of coarse white towels, and forced her aching arms to keep moving.
