Chapter 10 10
I dropped to my knees, clutching that coin like it was a holy relic. My eyes watered.
Then I looked back into the box and saw at least twenty dimes and a ridiculous amount of pennies. And that’s when I lost it.
I laughed.
Oh God, I laughed.
I laughed until I was wheezing, curled on the carpet, holding a handful of coins like a delirious pirate who just discovered gold in her grandma’s attic.
“Who’s poor now?” I cackled to the ceiling, still in my pajamas, hair a mess, a sock half-off my foot. “Huh?! Who’s too broke to pay rent now?!”
Every single penny in that box now had the power of a hundred dollars.
And my floor?
It was paved in rent money.
Years of ignoring those coins, years of tossing them aside like trash… and now? They were my salvation.
Take that, Elias.
Take that, Ivy.
Take that, Raven and MJ and every fake friend who ever called me broke, poor, disposable.
Because guess what?
My trash was now treasure.
And my couch coin pile just funded me an entire year’s lease.
Laughing with delirious joy, I scooped up the coins and dumped them into a tote bag like I was preparing for war.
A rich, shiny, metallic revenge war.
And the best part?
This was only the beginning.
Then—on cue, as if the universe had a dramatic director—I heard a knock at my door.
Of course.
It was him.
The landlord. Mr. Gordon, age somewhere between 40 and mummified, wore his usual grim expression, holding a soggy clipboard and looking at me like I was a rotten onion that somehow owed him rent, dignity, and an apology.
He eyed me from head to toe, gaze landing on my frizzy hair, my oversized shirt that had seen better decades, and the tote bag bulging with what looked like worthless coins.
I knew what he was thinking:
“She probably can’t afford a stale bagel, let alone rent.”
I smiled. Sweetly. Like a loaded gun in lipstick.
“Rent,” he grunted. “You're two days late. Again.”
“Am I?” I said innocently, opening the tote bag like I was revealing sacred relics.
Then I pulled out two dimes.
Yes, two.
One for this month.
One for next.
His eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Here you go,” I said, casually handing him the coins like I was flicking away lint. “All set.”
He blinked. Looked at the dimes. Looked at me. Back at the dimes.
For a moment, I wondered if he’d accuse me of mockery, but instead?
The man grinned.
Like I’d just handed him a bar of gold dipped in holy water.
“Well, thank you, Ms. Hunter,” he said, practically glowing. “You’re always so prompt.”
I shut the door with the grace of a woman who just bought her ex’s house to evict him.
Then I turned around, stared at my cheap mirror, and smiled.
“Let’s eat like the queen I am.”
Ten minutes later, I stepped out into the rain.
No umbrella. No designer trench coat.A Just me, the weather, and the unshakable confidence of a woman with a tote full of pennies that could buy real estate.
I hailed a yellow cab with one wave of my hand.
The driver glanced at me with mild suspicion, probably debating if I could afford the ride.
I handed him a one-cent coin. “Keep the chance.”
He stared at it. Stared at me.
Then he nodded in awe. “Anywhere you wanna go, ma’am.”
Damn right.
I leaned back as the car rolled through the city like I owned it—because, let’s be honest, I basically did.
We pulled up to VÉLIN, one of those ultra-exclusive restaurants where the cutlery costs more than a month’s salary and the napkins probably had their own passport.
I walked toward the velvet rope like I belonged there. Because now? I did.
The host—dressed in a blazer too tight for his ego—stopped me with a single lifted brow.
“Reservation?” he asked with the voice of someone trying to decide if I should be let in or escorted to the alley.
“Nope,” I said, cool as the rain on my shoulders.
I reached into my pocket and held up a two cent coin.
He squinted. Then his eyes widened. He stood straighter, cleared his throat, and stepped aside like I was royalty.
“This way, Ms.”
Yes. That’s Ms. to you now.
I sat down at a corner table with silk napkins, gold-rimmed glasses, and a menu that looked like a medieval spellbook.
The waiter arrived, a polished man who smelled like sea salt and secrets.
“Can I start you off with something small?” he asked.
I smiled and handed him a single penny. “Advance tip for you,” I winked at him.
His face paled. “Ma’am… are you sure? That’s… more than enough.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, flipping my hair like I hadn’t just risen from the ashes of bleach and betrayal. “I’m feeling indulgent today.”
And I ordered.
Oh, I ordered.
Appetizers. Entrees. Five desserts. That stupid tiny espresso that used to cost twenty dollars just to sip and pretend you were cultured.
I ordered everything I used to drool over behind glass windows.
And when the plates arrived, shimmering and steaming like the dishes had come from Mount Olympus, I leaned back in my chair, lifted my champagne glass, and whispered to no one:
“Bon appétit, btches.”
Because today?
Krystal Hunter wasn’t just eating.
She was feasting—on food, on freedom, and on the first taste of real, unstoppable revenge.
And then…
Oh, dear.
Shopping.
Sweet, glorious, wallet-obliterating, judgment-shattering shopping.
I had been reborn, not just with a fortune, but with the unapologetic audacity of a woman who once dug for dimes and now uses them to crush souls and fund closets.
I strutted—yes, strutted—straight to the golden district of Manhattan. You know the one. High-end boutiques lined like smug little cathedrals of wealth: Chanel. Dior. LV. Hermes. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. Prada. All the labels that once had security guards side-eyeing me like I might steal the air conditioning.
Not today.
Today, I entered with the dignity of a dethroned princess back to reclaim her empire—in my old, faded jeans and weather-beaten shoes that had definitely seen some sht.
I pushed open the heavy glass door of Chanel first.
Instantly, the scent of expensive perfume slapped me in the face. White marble floors. Crystal lighting. And rows upon rows of delicate, overpriced art that just happened to be wearable.
Behind the front counter, a woman turned toward me.
A tall, icy blonde. Accented English. Russian, maybe. With cheekbones that could cut glass and a sneer that could ruin Christmas.
She looked me up and down, eyes pausing on my jeans, my no-brand top, my tired shoes… and just like that?
She ignored me.
Didn’t greet me. Didn’t ask if I needed help. Didn’t offer me water like the three women who walked in before me.
I smiled to myself.
“Okay. No commission for you, Olga.”
Then came my retail savior.
A young Chinese woman with kind eyes and a fresh employee badge. Probably her first week.
She approached me cautiously, but politely. “Good afternoon, ma’am. May I help you with anything?”
I turned to her like a starlet greeting a fan. “Oh, sweetie. You’re about to help yourself to the biggest commission you’ve ever seen.”
She blinked.
Then I winked.