Chapter 37 37
The Apology Offer
There’s something wickedly poetic about reading an apology letter printed on paper so thick it could be used for royal decrees.
I was halfway through my almond croissant and espresso when my assistant, came in with a faint smile and a black velvet box tied with gold ribbon. I already knew who it was from. Rich people had a scent—like desperation and overpriced regret.
"From the Andersons," she said sweetly, laying it beside my breakfast tray.
I didn’t touch it. Not yet. Let the tension marinate.
The fireplace crackled beside me in my penthouse overlooking Manhattan. Below, the world moved like a well-oiled machine. Mine. I sipped my espresso, legs crossed in a silk robe that cost more than Raven’s salary. Yes, I knew. I knew everything. MJ's fall. Raven's crash. Norma baking bread. Elias begging a loan shark.
And still they sent me a box like I was the one who needed them.
With one perfectly manicured nail, I opened it. Inside: a handwritten letter on heavy cardstock with the Anderson family crest stamped in red wax. A bouquet of imported Ecuadorian roses. A limited-edition Van Cleef bracelet I already owned in three colors.
Pathetic.
I skimmed the letter. Words like “regret,” “misunderstanding,” “valuable connection,” “strategic alliance” jumped out. They wanted to partner on a “philanthropic gala” next quarter. Raven even scribbled a PS: “I still remember our song.”
I laughed. Actually laughed. That ugly, satisfied kind that bubbled straight out of your trauma's revenge folder. The sound echoed through the penthouse.
Oh, Raven.
Do you remember the song you hummed while cheating on me with my stepsister in the back of your daddy’s Tesla? Do you remember how you said I was “too intense,” “too plain,” and “not family material”?
You said MJ was softer, more ladylike. You said I didn’t fit your world.
And now look at you—jobless, disgraced, dumped by the very girl you threw me away for. Standing outside my club, probably praying I’d open the door and save your reputation.
I picked up the bracelet and dropped it in the trash without blinking.
Then I read the letter out loud, dramatically, as if auditioning for a daytime soap.
“‘Dear Krystal, we were wrong. You’ve grown into an incredible woman.’” I snorted. “Grown into? No, darling. I unleashed myself the moment you discarded me like used lip balm.”
Darren Johnson, who had been quietly reading through investment papers in the corner, looked up from his seat.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked dryly.
I leaned back on the couch, robe slipping slightly to reveal my toned shoulder and silk camisole beneath. His gaze flickered—he always looked but never stared. Gentleman, but dangerous.
“Oh, immensely. Watching the Andersons grovel is better than spa day.”
Darren raised a brow. “Shall I draft a formal rejection?”
I smiled. “Let’s do better than that. I’ll respond with a fruit basket.”
He laughed under his breath. “Savage.”
I stood up, walking barefoot across the marble floor with all the grace of someone who knew she had won. “Put a rotten pear in it,” I said over my shoulder. “And a card that says, 'Sorry, we’re full—try next lifetime.'”
He chuckled again but watched me a little differently this time. Like he saw not just the vengeance but the girl underneath it. The one Raven broke. The one who cried into her pillow at sixteen when her whole world collapsed under the weight of betrayal.
“You really loved him once,” Darren said softly.
I froze. For a second. Just one beat.
“Yes,” I whispered. “And he made me feel like loving someone was a weakness.”
I turned back to him, chin lifted high. “But now? Now I know better.”
Darren stood, slowly closing the file he’d been reading. He crossed the room toward me, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the velvet rug.
“Good,” he said. “Because you’re not the girl who begged for a seat at their table anymore.”
“No,” I said, eyes gleaming. “I’m the one flipping the damn table.”
NEXT MORNING
“Two more board members from Anderson’s Holdings resigned this morning,” Darren said, flicking through his tablet. “I’d say your speech worked better than anticipated.”
I sipped my lavender matcha and leaned back in the Italian leather chair. The smell of bergamot candles wafted through the high-ceilinged room. Gold fixtures, floor-to-ceiling windows, velvet drapes in cream. My newly acquired golf club-turned-social-hub was already making headlines.
Soft power was addictive.
“I didn’t need to ruin them yet,” I murmured. “I just needed them to remember I exist.”
“Done and done,” Darren replied with a smile. “Also… you’ve received an offer.”
I glanced up.
He slid a document folder toward me. “A representative from Veridian Futures. They want you as the face of a rising women-led innovation initiative. They’re offering partial acquisition of one of their eco-luxury hotels in Dubai and a seat on their advisory board.”
“Why me?”
“They think you’re ‘the future of redemptive capitalism.’ Their words.”
I laughed, then looked at Illana who was reapplying her lip gloss in the reflection of my glass trophy case.
“Is that before or after I personally ejected Ivy from my event?”
“I think that helped,” Illana chimed in, grinning. “You looked like a queen. The crowd LOVED it.”
“She snuck in through the back, by the way,” Tomas added, typing rapidly from the tech desk nearby. “Wore someone else’s perfume. AI caught her face at the secondary camera. Sloppy.”
I turned my chair, facing the wide skyline of the city. The very same skyline I once used to stare at from my freezing one-bedroom, wondering what it’d feel like to belong.
“I need a week,” I said, folding my fingers together. “Tell Veridian thank you. I’ll review their proposal after the golf meet in Monaco.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darren nodded, already typing.