The Heir in Disguise

Chapter Nine The Loan Officer!

Isla breathed out heavily, stepping into the corner of the hallway and pressing her back against the wall like a criminal trying to avoid arrest. Her heart thudded against her chest, but her face remained composed.

She had hoped Mia wouldn't follow her. The thought of a familiar face right now was more terrifying than comforting. Mia had always tried to be her friend since their college days, always tagging along, trying to create a bond under the guise of being from the same city. But no matter the level of familiarity Mia tried to force, Isla never let her in. That door had always been firmly shut.

And now, here she was, seeing Isla at the bank and attempting to greet her like old times? When Isla was here, not to invest or network, but to borrow money in secret? The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Isla heard the sound of Mia’s heels approaching. Instinctively, she turned back and slipped away toward the side door without entering it, trying to remain unnoticed. From the glassy slide door, she could sense Mia peeking inside, scanning the space. Thankfully, Mia didn’t spot her. Maybe she assumed Isla was in one of the offices along the hallway. That assumption worked in Isla’s favor. There was no need to linger.

She exhaled a deep sigh the instant she felt Mia was gone. Relief swept over her like a tide. Isla pushed herself off the wall and straightened her suit jacket, smoothing it down with slow, deliberate movements to recompose herself.

Her eyes drifted down the corridor toward the row of office doors. The last office at the end belonged to the loan officer. The first, right at the entrance, was marked as the investor’s office—a far more prestigious space. The contrast between the two doors felt symbolic.

She shut her eyes briefly, then opened them again with resolve. If Mia doubled back and saw her, it would be easier to lie and say she was speaking with the investor. That story fit her public image better. Someone of her social standing could easily be seen investing in gold or rare assets. The bank often reserved those kinds of opportunities for high-profile clients like her.

With cautious steps, she turned her head once more to peek through the glass of the side door. The coast was clear. No sign of Mia. With that reassurance, she walked briskly—almost too fast—straight into the loan officer’s office, her heels clicking with quiet urgency.

***

The loan officer’s fingers moved rapidly across his keyboard, his eyes locked on the screen with the focused gaze of a man immersed in numbers. He heard the door open behind him and someone step in, but he didn’t glance up immediately. He had learned not to interrupt his workflow until necessary.

“Well done, officer,” Isla greeted smoothly as she walked toward the desk and took the chair opposite him without waiting to be asked. Her voice was calm, but her stomach churned.

Mr. Fredrick, the loan officer, paused as he saw a shadow settle into the chair before him. The tone of the voice told him instantly—it was a woman, not a colleague. A client. He minimized the spreadsheet on his screen and looked up, professionalism already slipping into place.

Then he saw her.

Isla Quinn.

His eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. Who in Velmoria didn’t know Isla? The rebellious daughter of the Quinn family, the heiress who refused the family business and instead built her own luxury brand with just her name. Her story had inspired many. She was successful, powerful, and reportedly close to her father despite her independence.

But recently? Her I*******m posts had raised eyebrows. Something had shifted.

Still, Mr. Fredrick quickly masked his thoughts with a polite smile. “Ms. Quinn,” he said warmly.

“Welcome to Velmorian National Bank. What can we do for you today?” His voice was gentle, his fingers folding neatly on the desk just beside the keyboard.

Isla heaved out another deep breath. The question was simple—too simple. But for someone like her, the answer was anything but.

How could she admit she was here for a loan? A Quinn? Asking for help?

And worse, that she needed the money urgently?

Still, she swallowed the weight of her pride and forced the words out. The bank’s confidentiality policy would protect her. No one outside would know.

“I need a bank loan,” she said at last, her eyes closing as the words left her in a sigh.

Mr. Fredrick raised an eyebrow again, but quickly lowered it, masking any sign of judgment. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Still, a loan from someone like Isla Quinn?

“I see,” he said diplomatically.

“We understand that life sometimes hits hard, unexpectedly. Here at Velmorian National Bank, we’re always ready to support our clients through those difficult moments,” he added, his voice measured and kind.

“But may I know how much we’re looking at?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Isla replied, steady but soft.

“Okay,” Mr. Fredrick nodded without hesitation.

“For any loan exceeding fifteen thousand, our policy requires that the client provides a collateral of greater value than the requested amount,” he explained.

Isla exhaled in relief. That wasn’t a problem. Not at all.

She lived alone in a villa valued at over $300,000 since she turned twenty. She had four cars—a Cadillac SUV, a Benz, a limo, and a BMW. All but one of them were worth well over $70,000. Surely, this would be easy.

“Of course. I understand,” she replied confidently.

“I would like to use my Cadillac as collateral. I have the document stored in my drive. You can review and print it so we can finalize the loan immediately.” She handed him her phone without hesitation.

Mr. Fredrick received the device, scanning the document on the screen with trained eyes. A moment later, he frowned slightly and shook his head.

“No, ma’am,” he said firmly but respectfully.

“I’m afraid we cannot accept this as collateral.”

His voice remained even, but the decision was final.

“The ownership information clearly lists Mr. David Quinn as the legal owner. That means the property isn’t yours. We can’t process this loan using it.”

“What?” Isla blurted, disbelief flooding her voice. This was the car she’d driven for over three years. What did he mean it wasn’t hers?