Chapter 29 29
Somewhere above the glittering glass dome, in the penthouse level of the Crystal Pavilion, a private surveillance feed played softly in a secluded room.
Krystal sat in a silk slip, glass of vintage red wine in hand, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Tomas stood beside her, casually refilling her glass as Illana scrolled through the live social media reactions on her tablet.
“She actually wore that?” Illana snorted, then shoved the screen toward Krystal. “Oh look. Hashtag ‘#McLarenMeltdown’ is trending.”
Krystal didn’t laugh. Not yet. She simply stared, silent and still, as Norma’s breakdown unfolded onscreen.
“She never suspected,” she murmured. “None of them did.”
Tomas leaned over, whispering, “Should I leak the video to the press?”
Krystal tilted her head.
“Not yet. Let it simmer. Let them wonder who’s watching. Who’s moving the pieces.” She set down her wine and walked over to the window, looking down on the glowing city.
“They thought I was disposable. An orphan. A ghost.” Her eyes narrowed. “But ghosts don’t disappear. They haunt.”
Illana grinned. “You’re not just haunting them, babe. You’re rewriting the will.”
Outside the charity gala, Norma stumbled into a car that didn’t belong to her—her own vehicles had been repossessed weeks ago. She didn’t even cry. She just sat, frozen, realizing for the first time that maybe... just maybe...
This wasn’t bad luck.
This was personal.
And it had only just begun.
But…
The downfall continued—and now, it wasn’t just hunger and humiliation that clawed at them like rats in the walls. It was public shame, viral and venomous.
It started innocently enough—a whisper on a local gossip blog. An anonymous post from someone claiming to be “a former maid of the McLaren household.” Most people would’ve scrolled past. But the first sentence?
“I wasn’t allowed to eat leftovers unless the dogs had refused them first.”
That line exploded. Retweets. Shares. TikToks. Then more came. One maid became five, became fifteen, all with stories darker and more damning than the last. The accounts were posted anonymously, but their details were painfully specific. Who else would know that Ivy once made a housekeeper re-iron her underwear with lavender steam because “my thighs deserve luxury”? Or that Era threw a hairbrush at a cook’s head because her egg wasn’t “aesthetic enough for a selfie”?
“I was sixteen when I started working for them. Norma said my voice annoyed her and made me wear slippers so soft I wouldn’t make noise when walking. She called me 'the draft.’”
“They didn’t pay us on time. Sometimes not at all. When we complained, we got fired. Or gaslit.”
The hashtag #JusticeForTheHelp caught fire.
Celebrities started liking posts. Influencers did dramatic readings of the worst ones. Twitter was flooded with memes of a weeping cartoon maid slapping rich brats with unpaid invoices. Instagram flooded with edits of Krystal walking out of the mansion with flames behind her like she was some righteous Cinderella meets John Wick hybrid.
Reddit threads. TikTok compilations. Even BuzzFeed did a roundup:
“10 Times the McLaren Family Made Us Want to Punch a Rich Kid”
Elias lost it.
He threw a lamp.
Screamed at Norma.
Screamed at the wall.
Screamed at Era for breathing too loud.
“You think this is funny? This is a targeted smear campaign! Someone’s paying people to lie!” he roared, veins bulging from his neck.
Norma clutched her thinning hair and snarled back, “This is Claudia Hunter’s doing! That witch has hated me since I beat her at the Vogue Awards in 2009!”
“YOU WORE A DIAPER DRESS!” Ivy shrieked.
“It was couture!”
Meanwhile, Venice—sweet, self-obsessed Venice—thought she could fix it.
She opened Instagram, scrolled past the hate, and typed a "heartfelt apology" on a blurry notes app screenshot. It read:
"I’m sorry IF you FELT like you were treated badly. We were all under pressure. Sometimes things were said in frustration. But we loved our staff like family (except the one who stole my Gucci hairpins, you know who you are). Let's heal. 💖 #Forgiveness #LearnAndGrow"
The internet ate her alive.
“This is the worst apology I’ve ever read and I once got dumped via email,” one comment read.
“Girl WHAT?” said another.
“Not the notes app AND passive voice???”
“Loved them like family? The family you also underpaid??”
“The hairpin girl probably needed it to survive YOUR mansion.”
Venice cried. Then rage-posted a selfie with the caption “People hate pretty girls. That’s the real crime here.” It got 12,000 hate comments in four hours.
MJ tried to fight back.
He made a TikTok. Shirtless. Ranting.
“People out here acting like we’re murderers or something! You don’t know our story! You don’t know the pressure of being wealthy and perfect all the time! We’re victims of cancel culture!”
It got 2.5 million views. Mostly duets of people laughing at him, inserting fart noises, or green-screening him behind images of rats eating cake labeled “McLaren Servant Meals.”
Era posted on her story: “Imagine hating on us just bc we were born better 💅”
Instagram reported it for bullying within five minutes.
They all tried to clap back in the comments. Each reply more pathetic than the last.
Comment: “You made a pregnant cook stand for 8 hours. I hope you step on LEGOs for life.”
Ivy: “That wasn’t me. That was a chef. Chefs love to stand. It’s their job???”
Comment: “You’re crying in Walmart now. Karma’s so real.”
Elias: “Keep laughing. We’ll see who’s laughing when the truth comes out.”
Reply: “Sir you’re in a Taco T-shirt. Sit down.”
Even YouTubers got in on the action. One girl named Lacey did a dramatic reenactment of the maids’ stories, dressing up in a McLaren maid outfit and ending each video with:
“And that’s when I realized, I wasn’t hired. I was haunted.”
Sponsors dropped any McLaren-adjacent partnerships. Brands pulled their photos. A perfume deal that Venice had signed in Paris was now quietly scrapped. The entire family had become so toxic even reality shows wanted nothing to do with them.
And yet—still, not one of them brought up Krystal.
Not even in whispers.
Maybe deep down, they knew.
Maybe they were too afraid to say her name, like she was a curse they had spoken into existence.
Because while they drowned in internet hate, Krystal soared quietly above it all. Unbothered. Calm. Not a single word from her.
Just one quiet repost on her private company’s account:
“We stand with workers. Always.”
They deserved every flame.
And the world?
It was still just warming up.