Chapter 26 26
The butler answered, of course—old Jasper, now the only remaining help in the mansion, and frankly only because I paid him under the table to stay and let the cameras run.
Darren Johnson stepped in like a blade—sleek, precise, and cold. I could see Ivy practically salivate. That girl had always been delusional, never thinking beyond her next designer bag or lipstick line. Era straightened her spine and tilted her head, giving him her best damsel-in-distress pout. It was laughable. Like watching insects throw themselves at a moving car.
But Darren ignored them all. Stone-faced. Perfect. My perfect legal weapon.
“I’m here on behalf of the new owner of this estate,” he said calmly, his voice like a polished dagger. “The property has been foreclosed. You were notified by mail and email weeks ago. The bank has sold the estate under legal ownership transfer, and you are required to vacate the premises today.”
“What?” Norma screeched, grabbing at her pearls as if they could anchor her to reality.
“You can’t just take our house!” Ivy whined, tugging at Darren’s sleeve. “Do you even know who we are?”
Darren didn’t flinch. “I do. And more importantly, I know who you’re not—the rightful heirs.”
Elias stumbled back against the ornate mirror in the hallway, pale as death. “There’s been a mistake… this house is mine! I inherited it from my brother Ryan—he left it to me!”
Ah. There it was.
I paused the footage and stared at the frozen image of his panicked face.
Liar.
I had the will now. The real one. The one Tomas hacked out of an encrypted vault that Elias thought had disappeared with time. The one where my father left everything to his only child—me.
But I remembered how Elias had lied to my face that rainy night. I was seven. He told me my father left me nothing but debts. And because I was just a girl, quiet, bruised, and grieving, I believed him. And when he sent me off to that hellhole of an aunt’s house, I still believed him.
But not anymore.
I clicked play again. The camera followed Darren’s calm retreat down the icy steps of the now-doomed McLaren estate, as the family screamed behind him. The girls cried. MJ even threw a vase at the door as he left. Pathetic.
Then the second team came in—bank officers, movers, all with legal documents and security details. All orchestrated by me.
Every painting, vase, and piece of vintage furniture was tagged as collateral. Every watch, every fur coat, every Louboutin heel was now bank property. They were allowed to take only what they wore on their bodies.
Norma cried for her furs. Ivy begged for her "limited edition" bag. Era sobbed about her journal. Venice tried to take a flatscreen TV out the back door, only for it to be confiscated immediately.
I laughed—sharp and quiet. Not because I enjoyed their pain.
But because this was justice.
I didn’t want their money. I already had more than they ever imagined. In just a few years, I’d gone from being the McLaren family's dark secret to one of Manhattan’s most powerful names. Shares in top corporations. Ownership of buildings. Quiet investments in biotech and AI. Even my alias—Ms. Hunter—was now whispered like a myth.
But this mansion… this was personal. This was my father’s legacy. My legacy.
And they would leave it in the cold, just like they left me.
Tomas slid into the room with a glass of wine in one hand and a remote in the other. “They’re being escorted out. Want me to send them a farewell gift? Maybe a flashlight?”
I smirked. “No. Let them feel the dark a little longer.”
She raised her glass to me. “To Lady K.”
I raised my espresso. “To finally taking back what’s mine.”
And deep down, I knew this was just the beginning. Revenge didn’t need to come in explosions.
Sometimes, it came in the silence of a mansion with no heat. In the flash of a bank notice. In the cold wind biting their bones as they stood homeless on the steps of the very house they once used to trap me.
And they still didn’t know it was me.
But soon… they would.
Location: A five-star rooftop coffee shop with a skyline view, and a caramel brûlée latte in hand.
Tomas arrived five minutes early.
Good. He understood I wasn’t someone you kept waiting anymore. He wore a leather jacket that hugged his shoulders like sin, and aviators that screamed “I don’t ask questions—I make things happen.”
“Lady K,” he greeted smoothly, sliding into the velvet seat across from me, laptop bag in hand.
I sipped my latte like a bored queen waiting for news about the downfall of Rome.
“Tell me you’ve got something good, Tomas.”
He grinned, cracked his knuckles, and pulled out his laptop.
“Oh, baby. I didn’t just find skeletons in McLaren’s closet,” he said. “I found an entire graveyard.”
I leaned forward, my Givenchy heels crossed under the table.
“Do tell.”
McLaren Cigar Inc. was bleeding.
Like—a-punctured-lung-in-a-dark-alley kind of bleeding.
Tomas clicked open the first file:
Over $50 in unpaid taxes.
Credit card delinquencies across six banks—some dating back five years.
“They’ve been using employees’ identities to open ghost accounts,” Tomas added, sipping his overpriced espresso. “Also… see this?”
He showed me a scanned wire transfer from an anonymous overseas account tied to the sale of fake luxury goods.
Gucci bags made from synthetic leather.
“Rolex” watches with plastic gears.
Chanel perfume bottles filled with cheap body spray from a knock-off supplier in New Jersey.
“And the kicker?” Tomas smirked.
“They’ve been hiding inventory under fake company names. Like ‘Eleanor’s Essential Oil Emporium’.”
“Essential oils?” I deadpanned.
“To hide 6,000 pcs fake Louis Vuitton wallets.”
I laughed so hard, heads turned. “And bankruptcy?” I asked.
He nodded gravely. “Technically, they should’ve filed a year ago. They’ve been faking liquidity using fraudulent financial reports. That’s five years in prison right there—minimum.”