Chapter 35 35
Krystal’s POV —
The next day
I adjusted my grip on the club, the buttery leather of my glove creaking slightly as I shifted my weight onto my back foot. The sky was a watercolor of gold and blue—another perfect morning, bought and paid for. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the hedges of Fairmont Ridge Golf & Country Estate, which, as of three days ago, now belonged to me.
The first swing wasn’t even about the ball. It was about the sound it made when it soared.
That clean, satisfying whack.
That hush from the stunned board members who once told my uncle I “wasn’t country club material.”
That silence after money spoke louder than legacy.
I turned slightly, accepting the club from my personal assistant, Ava, who wore a tailored blazer over a crop top and held a clipboard like a weapon.
“What’s next?” I asked, reaching for the champagne flute resting on the side tray of the electric golf cart—hand-stitched leather, gold accents, and a built-in cooler, naturally.
Ava glanced at her list. “Tasting menu from Chef Kyo at noon, followed by the Elysian watch fitting at the lounge. Tomas is already setting up in the conference room. Oh, and Illana says the brunch crowd just posted a thirst trap from the members-only pool.”
I smirked. “Good. Let them drink and drool.”
Across the green, Darren Johnson was pacing with his tablet, phone pressed to one ear, eyebrows furrowed like a bloodhound catching a scent. He finally approached as I lined up my next shot.
“Tell me you have something,” I said without looking.
“I have three things,” he said. “Raven’s family runs a holding company registered under Vanth & Sons Ltd., but that’s just the surface. Beneath that? Offshore accounts in the Caymans, two unpaid labor violation settlements from a textile plant in Indonesia, and a pending fraud investigation filed quietly last fall.”
I exhaled a satisfied breath. “Oh, Raven, Raven, Raven. You really should’ve stayed in your lane.”
I hit the ball. It sliced perfectly into the distance, landing just shy of the 7th hole flag. Ilana let out a low whistle from the side cart where she was filming TikToks and checking Ivy’s spam folder simultaneously.
“Do we ruin him softly,” I asked Darren, “or do we go for fire and brimstone?”
Darren shrugged. “Softly first. That way, when we burn him, no one bothers to douse the flames.”
“Strategic,” I said, handing my club to Ava. “Send Tomas what you found. I want full background checks, all their client contracts, their supplier list, and anything I can turn into public humiliation.”
Tomas, our IT staffer—tall, quiet, cyber genius with a resting hacker face—nodded from his shaded seat. He was already typing into three different laptops.
“I’ll trace their ghost companies through the blockchain. And if I find out he was laundering money through NFTs, I’m posting that on LinkedIn,” Tomas muttered.
“Add a cat meme to it,” Ilana added helpfully. “Make it sting.”
The server arrived with a tray of foie gras sliders, truffle fries, and hand-cut watermelon cubes soaked in prosecco. I popped one in my mouth and sighed.
Luxury, power, and revenge tasted better with caviar.
By the 11th hole, I was lounging on a silk-draped seat under a shaded cabana while Ava briefed me on a meeting request from a magazine that used to call me a “socialite with no substance.” Now they wanted a feature piece titled: “From Ashes to Ascendancy: How Krystal Hunter Bought Her Seat at the Table.”
Cute.
I accepted with one condition: they use the photo of me holding the deed to Fairmont Ridge, heels dug into the green, and Ivy’s favorite pearls looped around my wrist like a bracelet of trophies.
“By the way,” Illana added as she tossed her hair, “guess who’s been following Tomas’s fake burner account pretending to be a luxury real estate agent?”
“Ivy?” I guessed, sipping my iced matcha.
“Bingo. She’s stalking listings she can’t afford and liking every post about lakefront properties.”
“Let her window shop,” I said sweetly. “Sometimes all a girl has is a dream… and a bus pass.”
Everyone laughed. Except Darren, who was busy checking something on his screen.
“I found something else,” he said slowly, stepping forward.
“Oh?” I asked, eyes narrowing.
“The Anderson family has a silent partner… linked to one of your former charity gala sponsors. If we press that thread, we might be able to fold their entire front business in one press leak.”
I tilted my head and smiled, dangerous and slow.
“Then pull the thread.”
By the time the sun began to dip, casting gold shadows over the emerald fairway, I knew we had already won the next round before it even started.
Raven Anderson’s image was about to shatter.
Ivy’s and Era's apologies would remain unread.
The next day
The chandeliers shimmered like a thousand secrets waiting to be spilled.
I stood in front of the vanity mirror in the private suite of the Primrose Ridge Golf & Country Club, the newest acquisition in my growing empire. Technically, I was the "anonymous benefactor" for the night’s glitzy charity gala—but come midnight, that title would wear my name like a crown.
"Final check," Illana chirped, adjusting the collar of my deep emerald couture gown, its silk and velvet layers hand-stitched in Paris, kissed with gold thread. “You’re a walking scandal in satin.”
I smirked. “Good. Let them choke on it.”
Darren knocked once and stepped in, sharp in a tailored navy tux, holding a folder of contracts. “Media clearance signed. No one knows it's you. Not even the event sponsor rep. Everything’s under aliases and LLCs. Oh, and the McLarens arrived. So did Raven’s family.”
I didn’t flinch, but inside? My satisfaction was bubbling like champagne. “Are they mingling well with the ghosts of their past mistakes?”
“They’re confused. And curious. Especially Ivy,” Darren added, voice low. “She’s been circling the staff trying to fish for the host’s identity.”
Illana snorted. “She’d do better interrogating the shrimp tower.”
Behind us, Tomas—my sarcastic IT genius turned event technician—popped up from the plush settee, clutching his iPad. “Live feed’s running, crowd’s restless, and one influencer already went viral asking, ‘Who is this mysterious billionaire queen?’ with the emoji crown. Ten million views in twenty minutes.”
I pressed my lips together in a tight, victorious smile. "Let them stew."
And me?
I wasn’t playing golf anymore.
I was playing gods with gold clubs and glass heels—and everyone else?
They were just teeing up for my entertainment.