Chapter 19 19
We took the private elevator up—yes, private, because God forbid I breathe the same air as someone who doesn’t own a yacht.
Kidding. I was nervous and excited at the same time.
The doors opened and—
BOOM.
I walked into literal heaven.
The Penthouse
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around all three levels, offering a panoramic view of Central Park, the Hudson, and the crushed dreams of commoners.
A grand spiral staircase made of Carrara marble and glass curved upward like something Cinderella would climb if she had stock in Am@z0n.
The living room had ceilings high enough to host a hot-air balloon party and featured a custom Italian fireplace longer than my old apartment.
A chef’s kitchen with three ovens, six wine fridges, and a gold-plated espresso machine that whispered sweet nothings to my caffeine soul.
The master bedroom? A floor unto itself—with a sky-view soaking tub, heated floors, and a walk-in closet so big I could host fashion week in it.
Oh, and did I mention the rooftop infinity pool?
“It’s a dream,” Lance said, watching me float through the penthouse like I owned the air.
“It’s not a dream, Lance,” I said, pulling out my black card and sliding it across the marble counter of the kitchen island. “It’s mine.”
He blinked. “M-mine as in... are you saying—”
“Yes.” I winked. “I’ll take it.”
“But—uh—we usually have to process paperwork and—”
“Twenty thousand. That’s barely two dimes and a penny in my world,” I sass-purred. “Let me know when the keys are ready.”
Lance looked like he was about to propose.
An hour later, I stepped onto the rooftop balcony of my new triplex penthouse, wind teasing my hair, Central Park glittering below, champagne in hand.
“From the closet to the clouds,” I murmured. “Look at me now, Norma.”
The McLarens had no idea what was coming.
But soon?
They’d be choking on their fake pearls while I sipped Dom Pérignon from my sky kingdom.
Few days later.
Still seated like a decadent villainess in a velvet-draped fairytale, I let my newly manicured fingers glide across the armrest of my velvet royal throne—okay, technically it was the custom-designed couch in my now-official penthouse suite, but it felt like a throne.
My lawyer, Darren, had just left after finalizing my name change to Krystal Hunter—a name that would soon send shivers down the spines of boardrooms and former lovers alike. But now I was sitting across from Lance, the real estate agent sent from whatever modeling agency deals in six-foot-tall caramel-skinned men with sharp cheekbones and the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.
“So,” I said, crossing my legs and lifting my Givenchy heel onto the glass coffee table like I owned the air in the room, “this building’s really growing on me.”
He looked up from his iPad, flashed that charming grin like I’d just asked for the secrets of the universe.
“Well, Miss Hunter, I’m happy to say you own the best unit in it. Top floor, city views, Italian marble, self-cleaning toilets, imported wallpaper. She’s the crown jewel.”
“Cute,” I said, sipping my cucumber-infused water, “but I want to give someone else a little crown too. Someone who actually matters in my life.”
His brows raised, intrigued.
“There’s a unit on the fifth floor. Four-bedroom, two-bath. Sunroom, open kitchen, warm palette with gold trim accents. It’s family luxury—not flashy, but heartfelt.”
“I’ll take it,” I said with zero hesitation. “It’s for Tita Maribel. My neighbor. She once fed me pancit when I had five cent to my name. And now? She gets floor-to-ceiling windows and a wine fridge.”
“Well…” he blinked, typing quickly. “That unit just became hers.”
“Also,” I added, placing my phone down after scrolling through luxury car listings like I was online shopping for cereal, “can you get me in touch with someone who can acquire the Rolls-Royce Droptail La Rose Noire?”
Lance nearly dropped his iPad.
“You mean the three-thousand-dollar Rolls-Royce?”
“Yes?” I smirked. Hell. Before my death, it was 30 million dollars. “I want it custom. I want it purring like sin, matte black with deep cherry leather interior, and a glove box that smells like power.”
“You’re my favorite kind of client,” he said, shaking his head, already making calls. “I know a collector. Private. Discreet. I can have it delivered here in a week. With a red ribbon?”
“Make it blood red.”
He made a note. Then I casually stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows like a queen surveying her next acquisition.
“How much is this building?” I asked, flipping my hair and watching the city sparkle beneath me like it knew I was coming.
Lance blinked. “The… whole building?”
“Yes. This one. I like the walls. The vibe. The fact that I peed here this morning and it felt rich. How much?”
“Uh, I’d have to c-check… It’s owned by an investment group. Probably um, around $300,000 dollars g-give or take.”
Hmmm. Around $3 billion before my death. Holy crap! But guess what? Now it felt like a penny to me.
“Handle it, talk to my lawyer, Darren Johnson, okay?” I said, reaching into my purse and placing a single dollar bill on the marble counter. “This is your tip.”
He stared at it like I’d just handed him the Philosopher’s Stone.
“Ma’am,” he whispered, like the dollar had whispered back. “This is… this is too generous.”
“Then buy some sass with it, Lance.” I winked.
He stood, stunned, still holding that one dollar like it was dipped in diamonds and blessed by royalty.
“One more thing,” I added. “Add extra parking. My Bentley goes to Tita. And my new Rolls will need her own private spotlight.”
Lance nodded, stunned silent.
I walked him to the door with a smile dripping with menace and grace.
Because today I wasn’t just rich.
I was a force of nature. And when I say I'm buying the building? That’s just step one.
The empire of Krystal Hunter was rising…
And every dime was a spark in the fire I was about to unleash.