Chapter 14 14
His eyes flicked up. “Hunter?”
“Yes, my mother’s surname. As in I’m done being prey,” I replied sweetly.
There was a pause.
And then the man smiled. That slow, amused, all-knowing kind of smile.
“I think that name suits you more than you know.”
We spent the next 20 minutes going over legal clauses, ID verifications, and signature boxes, though I had a hard time focusing on anything other than the way his sleeves strained around his biceps every time he turned a page.
“Will it be public?” I asked.
“The name change?” He nodded. “Yes, but I can file under emotional distress and include a confidentiality clause if you're looking for some... discretion.”
I leaned forward. “I’m not hiding anymore, Mr. Johnson. Let them see.”
He tilted his head. “Then you’re going to enjoy what comes next.”
As he gathered the papers, our fingers brushed. Just slightly.
My stomach? Flipped like a pancake at brunch.
He cleared his throat. “If you need help with anything else—property law, business contracts, revenge clauses... I’m your guy.”
I smirked. “Revenge clauses?”
“You’d be surprised how many millionaires ask for them.”
I stood, grabbed my purse, and turned at the door. “Well then, Counselor… you might want to keep my file open.”
His green eyes sparkled. “Oh, I plan to.”
Outside, the world buzzed. But I was calm.
I had my name. I had my money. And now?
I had a lawyer whose arms could carry a lawsuit and a broken heart—at the same time.
I stepped out of the Kingsley Building with my head held high, the name “Hunter” freshly inked into legality and revenge marinating deliciously in my veins.
The city smelled like ambition and overpriced cologne. The sun kissed my cheek like it owed me an apology for the past.
And then—
That voice.
“What the hell are you doing here, Krystal?”
My body stilled. My eyes rolled before my head turned.
There she was.
MJ McLaren.
In all her designer-knockoff glory. Too much bronzer, too little dignity. Wearing a beige blazer that tried so hard to scream wealth but whispered credit card debt. Her stilettos were scuffed, her fake lashes clung like her exes—barely hanging on.
“And is that a fake Prada and Chanel purse combo?” she sneered, her over-lined lips twitching with judgment.
Oh, MJ.
Still stuck in the same old script while I’d upgraded to a whole new genre.
I gave her a slow once-over. From her chipped gel nails to the faded Balenciaga print that had seen better days on clearance racks.
Then, very slowly, I pulled off my sunglasses and tucked them into my real Chanel purse with exaggerated grace.
“Aw, MJ… how nostalgic. You still talk like you're the main character.”
Her face twitched. “This area’s for legal firms, not broke little charity cases.”
I smiled. “That’s exactly why I’m here. Changing my name legally. Thought it was time I dropped yours before it stains my success any further.”
Her nostrils flared.
I stepped closer. “And FYI, this Chanel is so real, it came with a black card that could fund your Botox for the next decade. But go off, sis.”
“You’re bluffing.”
I pulled out the black card, let it catch the light between my fingers, then slid it back in my purse like it was just a coffee stamp.
“Let’s not forget,” I added, voice silk but sharp, “you’re the same girl who stole a pair of secondhand sneakers I found in the park when we were seven. So really, MJ, when it comes to fakes…”
I let the silence finish the sentence.
She stood frozen, her mouth trying to find a comeback that wasn’t sponsored by bitterness and bad taste.
“Well,” she spat, “you’ll always be the adopted, pathetic little charity case.”
I leaned in, smiling sweetly.
“And you’ll always be the girl who thought ‘borrowed’ meant keeping everything you could never afford.”
I turned, flipped my ponytail, and walked away like the city sidewalk was my runway. Her silence followed me like a rejected audition tape.
Because this time? The girl MJ tried to bury under fake love, fake friendship, and fake Prada…
Was walking away in the real thing.
And the next time she saw me? She’d have to look up.
MJ’s POV
What the actual hell. Where did she get that attitude?
That walk? That purse? That smirk?
I stood frozen on the sidewalk, still gripping my overpriced tote like it was a weapon of status. I couldn’t breathe for a second, because seriously—who even was that?
That wasn’t Krystal McLaren. That wasn’t the crybaby I locked in the closet when she was five, who whimpered when mommy so much as raised her voice.
That wasn’t the little nobody who wore scuffed shoes and hand-me-downs from the charity bin at St. Claire’s.
This version?
She had posture. Sass. Lipstick that screamed “step aside or get stepped on.”
And she had the audacity to flash a black card like it meant something?
Please. I wasn’t born yesterday.
“That Chanel is fake,” I muttered under my breath, jaw clenched so tight my molars cracked.
I know fake when I see one. I’ve bought enough from those Instagram ‘luxury outlet’ pages to be fluent in it.
But still… there was something off.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t stutter. She walked like she owned the Kingsley Building. Like she just signed a contract to sell me at auction.
And where the hell was she going with that lawyer?
Why was she changing her name?
I pulled out my phone, my manicured thumb furiously tapping.
To: Venice
“You won’t believe this. Just saw Krystal walking out of Kingsley Law like she’s the damn Queen of Manhattan. Chanel. Prada. A BLACK CARD???”
It took a second before Venice replied.
Venice:
“LOL please. She probably found that purse in the trash. What was she doing there anyway? Delivering food?”
Me:
“She SAID she was changing her name. Dropping ours. I think she’s high.”
Venice:
“Let her. One less loser attached to the McLaren name.”
God, her sarcasm grated my nerves today.
Fine. If Venice wasn’t taking it seriously…
I opened my contacts and hit “Maam”.
If anyone could sniff the scandal from a mile away, it was Norma.
And if Krystal was trying to play rich girl with some pity cash or sugar daddy purse money, Maam needed to know.
“Hello?” Norma answered on the third ring, voice already suspicious.
“Maam,” I said, stepping around the corner to lower my voice. “You’re not gonna believe who I just saw walking out of Kingsley Law like she owns it…”
MJ didn’t know it yet, but that call would mark the beginning of the McLaren panic spiral.
Because the girl they cast out?
Wasn’t a ghost. She was a storm. And MJ had just felt the first drop.