Chapter 11 11
“Get me your biggest bags. I want shoes, boots, stilettos. Heels that make men cry. Dresses that scream elegance with a side of vengeance. Purses big enough to carry broken dreams. Jewelry that outshines betrayal. Oh—and a custom iPhone if you have it. The one with diamonds in the case. And throw in that limited-edition gold MacBook Pro. I need something to check my bank balance on—every five minutes.”
Her mouth dropped open.
Even Olga the Ice Queen looked over now. Eyes wide. Realizing, slowly, horrifyingly, that she had messed up the bag.
I walked past her, giving her a brief look.
“I would’ve asked you first. Shame.”
And then?
I unleashed.
It was glorious. It was theatrical.
I tried on everything. Walked the marble floor in 4 dime heels like I owned the air. I posed in mirror after mirror, letting the scent of designer leather and envy wrap around me like a second skin.
By the time I was done?
I had six boutique attendants running around with clipboards, calculators, and measuring tapes.
And I?
I was sitting on a velvet stool, sipping the complimentary champagne they finally offered me, a glinting dime between my fingers.
“How will you be paying today, ma’am?” asked the new girl, her voice awed.
I grinned, pulled my black card and pulled a handful of dimes and pennies from my designer tote bag, and dropped them—softly, beautifully—on the marble counter. A tip and for added drama because why not?
They clinked like little notes of power.
The total?
“Roughly $7.43,” she whispered, as if it were sacred.
I looked back at Olga, who now stood in the corner, pale, sweating, completely forgotten by the gods of luxury.
And I winked again.
“That’s what my dimes can do.”
I left Hermes, Dior and Prada with fifteen enormous shopping bags, my new diamond-studded iPhone already set up, a team of delivery boys hauling the rest to my apartment, and a quiet storm brewing in my soul.
Today, I bought couture.
Tomorrow?
I buy the world that laughed at me.
One dime at a time.
That night, I stood outside Tita Maribel’s door with two glossy Chanel paper bags swinging from my arms like trophies.
The rain had stopped. The city lights glowed gold. And me?
I was buzzing—not from money, but from something warmer. Softer. The kind of joy that came from finally being able to give back to someone who never expected a single thing in return.
I knocked.
She opened the door in her house slippers and an apron that read “Coffee First, Talk Later.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Oh. Anak… what are those?” she asked, eyeing the elegant black bags like they were radioactive.
“Gifts,” I said, stepping inside. “For you.”
She blinked. “For me?”
“Unless your ghost roommate’s been doing my laundry, yes, Tita—for you.”
I set the bags on her dining table and carefully pulled out a pair of Chanel ballet flats—simple, elegant, soft cream with a pearl toe. Then came the second surprise:
A gorgeous Dior handbag, soft lilac leather, with a dainty silver chain. Matched with a small LV and Celine purse in classic black.
She gasped. Actually gasped. Like I’d handed her a bar of gold wrapped in pancit.
“Krystal!” she whispered, eyes wide. “Anak, what is this? You’re wasting money—these are too fancy, too expensive! You didn’t have to!”
“But I wanted to,” I said, taking her hands. “Tita, you saved me. You found me. You stayed with me in that hospital. You brought me pancit when I had nothing. You looked at me like I was a daughter.”
Her lip trembled.
I squeezed her fingers. “Let me spoil you. Just once. Or maybe more.”
She looked down at the shoes, then at the bags. “I’ll only wear them on Sundays, ha. And church. And maybe to the veteran nurses’ reunion so they can all collapse with envy.”
I laughed.
She wiped her eyes, muttering something about stubborn girls and emotional sabotage, then went straight to the kitchen. “Okay. Enough drama. I’m making adobo.”
Few minutes later.
The house smelled like home.
Garlic. Soy sauce. That sweet, simmering warmth that only Filipino food could bring. I helped set the table while her two granddaughters—Bettina and Micah—ran out squealing, already asking if they could open “the fancy bags Auntie Krystal brought.”
“I have something even better,” I said, and opened a third bag I’d hidden behind my back.
It was stuffed with brand-new toys—Barbie dolls, puzzles, little backpacks shaped like animals, and a toy cooking set with sparkly plastic utensils. I’d grabbed it all from a nearby toy shop earlier that day while waiting for a coffee that cost less than a sneeze.
The girls screamed in delight, jumping up and down, hugging me like I was Santa Claus, a fairy godmother, and a Disney princess rolled into one.
We sat on the floor, playing with dolls and setting up a make-believe restaurant where Micah was the head chef and I had to order imaginary spaghetti ten times just so she could yell “COMING RIGHT UP!”
Tita Maribel laughed from the kitchen.
I looked around the tiny home. Cramped but full of love. The sound of laughter, the scent of rice steaming, the girls’ giggles as they pretended to charge me $2 for invisible ice cream.
For a moment, all the pain, betrayal, and bleach-stained memories faded away.
For once, I wasn’t Krystal the billionaire.
Not Krystal the victim.
Not the girl who ate a lottery ticket and came back from the dead.
I was just… me. Grateful. Alive. Healing.
And I vowed right then:
The people who were good to me in my lowest?
They’d rise with me in my highest.