Chapter 16 16
The moment I entered Maison L’Argenté, heads turned. It was the kind of salon where appointments were booked three months in advance, where stylists wore all black and whispered like aesthetic assassins.
The receptionist blinked at my expensive outfit and my massive diamond earrings—I know that look. She thought it was fake—until I handed her a penny. “Just a small tip for your sass.”
She gasped like I just offered her a down payment on a jet. “Right this way, ma’am. Champagne? Caviar? Back massage while you wait?”
“A glass of your driest champagne,” I replied. “And tell Ricardo I’m ready for my villain arc glow-up.”
By the end of my four-hour transformation?
Hair? Glossy, bouncing like I had a hair commercial contract.
Nails? Glinting crimson daggers.
Skin? So luminous it could trigger a skincare lawsuit.
Mood? Peak villainess on a vacation from hell.
The best part?
I only spent two dimes.
Yes, you heard that right. One-seven. Cents.
Every stylist, masseuse, and glam artist I passed on the way out got a single penny from my old shoe box—each one received it like it was the holy grail dipped in truffle oil.
“You, Miss Hunter, will be our lifetime VIP,” said the Russian manager, who had more Botox than expressions. “I hope next time you let us prepare a private room. And maybe—gift bag?”
“Darling,” I purred, flipping my freshly blown-out curls, “next time, I want an orchestra playing Bad Blood the moment I walk in.”
They laughed. I didn’t. I was serious.
And just when I was about to leave—heels clicking like divine punctuation—she walked in.
Illana.
Ivy’s fake little minion. All five-foot-nothing of her, hair dyed neon watermelon, eyelashes longer than her resume, and strutting like she owned the salon she clearly couldn’t afford.
Head to toe in fake designer. I knew those knock-off Louboutins from a mile away—I used to sew the fake tags for Norma’s black market warehouse. Her “Birkin” was flimsier than a paper bag in the rain.
Her eyes swept me up and down like she was a customs officer for class. “How dare a low-grade bitch like you walk in here?” she spat, adjusting her obviously fake Chanel belt. “Are you here to—what, apply for a job? Clean the toilets?”
I smiled. Not sweetly. Like a woman who could buy the salon and turn it into a dog spa just to spite her.
I turned to Inessa, the head stylist—tall, terrifying, Russian. “Inessa, would you mind telling her who I am?”
Inessa blinked, straightened her spine like I was royalty. “Miss Hunter is our VIP. She spent more today than I earned in a week.”
“In dimes and pennies,” I added with a wink.
The gasp Illana let out could’ve powered the subway system. “Wha—Dimes?! You mean…?”
“Real ones,” I said. “Unlike your Gucci belt.”
She looked down at her waist as if it might vanish.
“And by the way,” I added, turning back just before the doors opened, “next time you want to run your mouth in a luxury salon, make sure you’re not wearing a purse I literally saw sold in Chinatown for half a penny and a soggy meat bun.”
Mic drop. Hair flip. Cue Beyoncé.
I walked out of there with my head so high I probably disturbed the clouds.
Oh, I knew she’d call Ivy the moment she left.
Good.
Let them start sweating. The game hasn’t even begun. And I was just getting warmed up. 💋
I hailed a cab and thirty minutes later, I gave the cab three cents and made him smile.
With my new custom gold-trimmed iPhone in one hand and my Givenchy purse casually tucked under the other, I strutted into Darren Johnson’s law firm like the floor was my runway and the receptionists were my background dancers. The Fendi heels clicked. The lighting hit. And baby, I didn’t just enter the building—I made it tremble.
The lobby was minimalist—sleek gray marble, golden accents, and way too much air conditioning. Probably meant to freeze emotions.
Too bad I walked in already on fire.
“I have an appointment,” I said coolly, removing my sunglasses and letting the receptionist catch a full view of this glow-up.
She blinked. “Your name?”
“Krystal. Krystal McLaren… soon to be Hunter.”
That earned me a blink and a barely concealed look of admiration. She buzzed me through faster than you could say “petty revenge.”
I walked down the hallway, knowing full well how these designer heels echoed like authority. Darren Johnson’s nameplate was on a frosted glass door, just above a sleek brass handle.
I didn’t knock.
I opened the door and walked right in.
And there he was.
Leaning against his desk, arms crossed, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing as if his biceps were silently judging me for existing too attractively in his office.
Green eyes. Smoldering.
His tie hung loose like a secret he wanted me to pull.
He looked up. “Krystal,” he said, voice low, like velvet laced with caffeine. “You’re early.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, placing my purse on his glass table like it was a throne.
He didn’t blink.
I didn’t flinch.
The room? Yeah, it definitely got warmer. “So,” I said, crossing my legs just right, letting the slit of my Dior dress make an entrance of its own. “Did you get the paperwork?”
“Name change, ID transfer, all ready to go,” he said, handing me a folder. “You’ll officially be Krystal Hunter within the week. And we’ll have your inheritance records scrubbed clean from McLaren history.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Like me.”
He smirked. “So modest.”
“I try.”
He moved around the desk, placing the folder between us. Close. Too close. I could smell his cologne—cedarwood, citrus, danger. The kind of scent you’d regret smelling after 2 a.m. and a bottle of Merlot.
“I don’t usually ask personal questions,” he said, tilting his head, “but you don’t exactly strike me as a woman who hides in her family’s shadow.”
“That’s because I don’t,” I replied. “I was buried. Now I’m back. And this time, I brought diamonds and receipts.”
He chuckled, low and smooth. “And now you’re making me curious.”
“Careful, Darren,” I said, picking up his pen and scribbling my new signature. “Curiosity is how men end up broke, blushing, and blocked.”
He stepped back, watching me like I was a puzzle made of perfume and fire. “And how do they win with you, Krystal?”
I slid the signed paper across the table, my nail grazing the edge. “They don’t.”
“Challenge accepted.”
And just like that, our fingers brushed.
One second.
Zing.
I stood up.
“Call me when it’s official,” I said, walking out without looking back. “I’ve got a revenge empire to build.”
The door closed behind me, but I swear I could still feel those green eyes burning into my spine.