Chapter 47 47
Weeks Later
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing the top floor of Lucent Capital HQ. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, live orchids blooming in sleek marble vases, and a view of the skyline that whispered power in every reflection. I walked in wearing blood-red stilettos and a tailored navy suit that could cut steel—diamond pins in my hair, lips painted the shade of war.
“Ms. Hunter,” the assistant greeted, rising from her desk with trembling deference.
I gave a nod, eyes locked on the conference room where the board of LuxVerra International waited. A global conglomerate, old money, old power, and now—with interest in something that had once belonged to my grandfather.
The McLaren legacy.
Not for sentiment. No, that ship had sunk with the weight of years of neglect, abuse, and the stench of Elias and Norma’s greed. But for image, for prestige, for the narrative they wanted to tell—a phoenix rising, a dynasty reclaimed—they needed me.
And now they would get me. On my terms.
Inside, the room was cool and sterile. A dozen suits. Polished smiles. A hologram presentation already spinning my old family estate like it was a luxury resort waiting to be reborn.
“Our proposal is simple,” began the lead negotiator, a man in a dove-gray tie. “We want to acquire the McLaren estate, as well as the family’s vintage brand holdings—wines, fashion, even the racehorses.”
I tilted my head. “And you want me to smile and sell it.”
“We want you to own it,” another woman chimed in. “We want to rebrand McLaren as Krystal Hunter—a fresh face, a modern legacy. You’ve built a global audience, a following. We want your brilliance. We want you at the helm of your birthright.”
I paused. Let them sweat for two long seconds.
Then I smiled, slowly. “I’ll agree to the deal.”
Relief swept across the table—until I leaned forward and added, “But I want full ownership. Not of your company, but of everything McLaren. Elias and Norma must sign over all assets, properties, patents, and any intellectual rights connected to the name.”
A beat. The air shifted.
“Ms. Hunter,” the lawyer at the end said carefully, “That would mean—”
“Yes,” I said, sharp and clear. “Everything that belongs to them before. The vineyards. The archives. The vaults in Geneva. The penthouse in Madrid. The family mausoleum. All of it. I want the name scrubbed clean and placed in my hands. Otherwise… find another legacy to whitewash.”
The silence was delicious.
When I walked out of that room an hour later, I had a glass of champagne in one hand and a contract in the other. A contract that spelled the end of Elias and Norma’s reign.
And the beginning of mine.
Few Days Later They came to me, of course.
Elias with that thinly veiled condescension hiding his panic. Norma with her pearls and crocodile tears. Even Ivy trailed behind, silent and pale. Era and MJ didn't bother. They were in too deep with their latest PR disasters.
But Venice? Oh, she was there. Chin high. Fury wrapped in fake silk.
“We need your help,” Elias said, sitting stiff on the edge of my penthouse’s couch like it might bite him.
I poured myself a second espresso. “Do you? Or do you just want someone to mop up your failure?”
Norma tried for tenderness. “Krystal, sweetheart—”
“Don’t.” I sipped, savoring the silence. “You all made it clear I was nothing. That I didn’t belong. And now? You need me to save your empire?”
Elias’ jaw ticked. “It’s not about that—”
“No, it is.” I turned toward Venice. “And I’ll do it.”
Venice blinked.
I stepped closer. “I’ll sign the deal. I’ll rescue what’s left of my father’s name. But I want something first.”
Elias perked up like a vulture circling a deal.
I pointed to MJ.
“I want her to apologize. Publicly. In a press conference. I want her to admit she bullied me, lied about me, and ridiculed me for years. I want the world to see it. No hiding behind a PR firm, no subtle ‘reconciliation post.’ A confession. With tears, if she can manage it.”
Norma gasped. “That’s cruel.”
MJ stood, rage splashed across her face. “You can’t be serious.”
I tilted my head. “Oh, but I am. Because here’s the thing—you need me now. And I don’t need any of you.”
Elias started to argue, but I cut him off with a smile so sweet it burned.
“You taught me to play this game. I just learned to play it better.”
And then I turned, walking away as the butler escorted them out.
One Week Later
The cameras blinked like hungry eyes, capturing every tremble, every forced blink, every bitter truth being laid bare in public.
MJ McLaren stood beneath the white-gold lights in a crisp designer ensemble—ironic how her coat was the color of innocence when none of them had ever worn it truthfully. Her cheeks were blotchy with ruined foundation, her lips chapped, voice raw as she tried to piece together words into a fragile apology.
"I..." she swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I bullied my sister, Krystal. I stole her boyfriend. I was cruel. We all were cruel to her."
A pause, eyes darting left and right like prey sensing the wolves just beyond the woods.
"I said things that now make me sick to remember. I laughed when she cried. I took credit for her work. I made her feel worthless." Her voice broke. “But she wasn’t. She never was. She is the true legacy of the McLaren name.”
Click. Click. Click.
The cameras devoured every syllable.
Every single person who ever sided with them was watching.
And I—
I stood just off-camera, swathed in power that was no longer hidden, with Darren at my side.
He smelled like cedar and slow-burn revenge. His palm slid around my waist, fingers gently tracing the edge of my custom midnight blazer. There was no need for him to speak loudly—his voice was the kind you felt like silk against skin.
“How’s it feel to win?” he murmured, lips brushing just beneath my ear.
I leaned into him, the scent of champagne still clinging to the inside of my thoughts from earlier. “It feels like justice,” I whispered back. “With a side of champagne. And a cherry of humiliation.”
His chuckle vibrated against my spine. I liked that. God, I liked that.
The press conference ended not with applause—but with silence. Heavy. Unforgiving. The kind of silence that only follows truth too long buried.
And as the flashes faded, and the stage lights dimmed, I stepped forward—not to speak, not to gloat—but to leave.
In five-inch stilettos that clicked like a war drum, I walked out into the marble corridor.
Not a tear. Not a word.
Only the sound of heels and closure.
I was no longer a forgotten McLaren. I was the Hunter now.
The name they erased from all the records. The name my mother whispered when no one else was listening.
And now—
Now, it crowned every door they once shut in my face.
By the time I arrived at my penthouse, the sky was melting into twilight. Tomas was already waiting with a USB drive and his usual crooked smirk.
"They’re losing their minds," he said with a grin, handing it over like it was my victory medal.
I loaded the footage on my TV, propping my elbow on the velvet armrest as I sipped from a glass of vintage Dom Pérignon.