Chapter 27 27
Then came the juicy blackmail section.
Tomas opened a hidden folder.
Labeled: McLaren_Freak_Show
“I tapped into an old private server linked to Elias’ office email.”
Exhibit A:
— Private messages between Elias and a known customs officer who accepted bribes to turn a blind eye to shipment irregularities.
— Incriminating videos from a hidden camera inside Norma’s “luxury stock room,” which was just an abandoned warehouse full of replica knock-offs and rats.
— A “family meeting” audio file where Elias admits to forging my father Ryan’s signature on an amendment to the will.
My blood ran cold.
Then... MJ.
Oh honey, you’re gonna want popcorn for this.
MJ’s academic fraud file:
Proof she paid off a student to write her thesis.
Chat logs of her sending screenshots of tests to classmates during exams.
One particularly damning email to a professor:
“If you don’t give me a passing grade, I’ll make sure your wife finds out about the girl you were talking to in Chem 204.”
Then I slipped him five dollars across the table. He looked at it like I handed him the keys to the kingdom.
“Five dollars for that?”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I grinned. “That was just the appetizer. The real feast comes when we burn their entire legacy down.”
And baby, I was just preheating the oven.
The next day.
Location: My penthouse at the top of Central Park Tower, in silk pajamas, sipping champagne, while Illana, Tomas, and Elsa spill gossip like they’re auditioning for a scandalous soap opera.
Tonight’s mission:
Find out who’s cheating on whom in the McLaren household.
Because, darling—sibling betrayal is not a tragedy. It’s a performance.
And I’m front row, center, with popcorn and a loaded black card.
Illana started:
“Okay, okay—listen to this. Ivy has been dating that shady finance bro, Tristan Kale, right? But turns out, he’s actually ERA’S ex. Like, long-term, ring-discussion-level ex.”
I blinked.
“So Ivy’s playing house with her sister’s leftovers?”
“Exactly,” Illana snorted. “And it gets worse. ERA doesn’t even know. Ivy told her he’s just her ‘investment advisor.’”
“Investment in… lip fillers and fake Versace?”
“Dead.”
—
Tomas, sipping red wine like a mob boss:
“Oh, I got something hotter.”
“Spill.”
“Venice? The ‘married with twins’ one?”
“Yeah?”
“Her husband hired a private investigator. Guess why?”
“Please tell me it’s not the pool boy.”
“Worse. It’s her personal trainer-slash-massage therapist, one Raoul Vasquez… who also happens to be MJ’s ex-boyfriend.”
Cue gasps and Elsa choking on her macaron.
“WAIT. Venice is cheating on her husband—with MJ’s ex?”
“Yes. And she saved his number as 'Electrician Carlos'. Like girl, that’s not even creative.”
🍷 Elsa my friend, adds, flipping her phone:
“And MJ? She’s still seeing Raven.”
My champagne glass paused mid-air.
“Come again?”
“Yep. Your slimy ex. According to his social media activity, they’re still together. But—”
“There’s always a but.”
“—He’s also messaging Ivy at 2 AM.”
“Oh no. Not the group pass-around…”
“He’s playing sister musical chairs.”
“With a side of syphilis, probably,” I muttered.
Tomas raised a glass.
“To McLaren loyalty.”
We all clinked, laughing like villains in a Netflix drama.
BONUS DISCOVERIES:
Elias, the proud patriarch? Has a secret second phone. With photos of a certain younger woman… who works at the fake luxury warehouse. Guess who she is? Norma’s niece.
Norma? Booked a weekend getaway to Turks and Caicos… under the name “Nora Moonlight.” Who did she book it with? A recently divorced plastic surgeon in his 30s who used to treat MJ. Let that sink in.
A few hours later at the McLaren states. The mansion stood cold and dark, snowflakes dancing through the twilight air as police cruisers idled outside with flashing red and blue. The wrought-iron gates groaned open as the officers stepped out, flanked by the new property lawyer, Darren Johnson—still expression unreadable but sharp as a blade.
“Mr. Elias McLaren,” the lead officer called out, raising a document. “This property is now under seizure following foreclosure and pending investigation. You are ordered to vacate immediately.”
Inside the grand foyer, chaos detonated.
“What do you mean we have to leave!?” Norma’s voice pierced the hall, shrill with disbelief. Her faux fur coat slipped off one shoulder, revealing the jagged stitching of a secondhand blouse underneath. “You can’t just throw us out like common criminals!”
“I am calling the governor!” Ivy shrieked, even as she scrambled to put on lipstick in a cracked handheld mirror. “I KNOW people—!”
“OH MY GOD, MY BAG!” Venice wailed. “They’re taking my Valentino—MY VALENTINO!”
Two officers calmly walked past her, tagging designer bags and watches as bank property.
“DO NOT touch my brushes!” MJ screamed, grabbing a basket full of luxury makeup, only to have it gently pulled away by an officer.
Era clung to her giant stuffed unicorn, crying, “Is my unicorn safe? Is she part of the bank too?!”
Elias stood frozen, fists clenched, eyes blazing at Darren. “You! You think you can just walk in here and take my house?!”
“It was never yours,” Darren said coolly, adjusting his cufflinks. “It belonged to Ryan McLaren—Krystal’s father. Legally, she was the inheritor. You forged that will, Elias. And now, it’s all caught up to you.”
Elias lunged, but Darren didn’t flinch. The police stepped in.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Darren added, almost bored. “This is just step one.”
“Who the hell is even behind all this?” Norma hissed, heels clacking as she followed Elias outside. “Is it that bastard from your cigar club?! Tell me!”
The butler, who had remained silent through it all, simply bowed before leaving without a word. He had been paid months ago by Tomas, under Krystal’s instructions.
Friends were called. Phones were dialed, texts fired off in desperation.
No one answered.
No one wanted to be associated with the cursed McLarens anymore.
Norma called her old friend from the Women’s Golf League—blocked.
Ivy messaged her influencer group—left on seen.
Venice posted a “prayer request” on social media. Comments were off.
MJ threatened to sue anyone who didn’t help. Then her battery died.
With all their bank accounts frozen, their cars repossessed, their credit cards dead, the only place Elias could think of—shamefully, desperately—was a friend from his underground cigar dealings.
“Just a small loan, I’ll pay you back as soon as this blows over,” Elias begged on the call, pacing in front of a dingy 24-hour diner, breath steaming in the cold air.
“No can do, brother,” came the reply. “Word is, you’re radioactive.”
Eventually, they found a one-bedroom apartment in the outer part of the city. The landlord smirked when he handed over the keys.
“This place?” he said. “Used to belong to a girl named Krystal. Sweet girl. Left without a word, though. Vanished. Quietest tenant I ever had.”
The name hit Elias like a blade to the gut.
Krystal.