Chapter 48 48
On screen: The former McLaren family—Elias, Norma, Venice, MJ, and Era—were screaming.
Venice shrieked as she threw her tablet across the cramped apartment, her false lashes hanging by a thread.
MJ and Ivy were pacing, crying, wiping their nose with fake designer sleeves.
Norma had collapsed on the couch like a fainting Victorian ghost, wine glass in hand, screaming at no one in particular.
Elias kept shouting into his disconnected phone, his face pale and purple at once.
They had just learned what I knew days ago:
The McLaren Estate, holdings, trademarks, and trust portfolios had been sold off, liquidated, and absorbed.
Not by any unknown conglomerate.
But by me. Krystal Hunter.
I changed every title deed.
Every property and legacy asset was now under Hunter International and Hunter Holdings
Not McLaren.
Even their name was leased out to me. If they wanted to use the McLaren label for a handbag, a sock line, or even a cocktail napkin? They’d need my written permission.
They were no longer the McLarens. Just a broken family with no power, no empire, no legacy.
I watched Venice collapse into tears, mascara bleeding down her cheeks. I watched Elias clench his fists. And I smiled. "Shall I pour more champagne?" Tomas asked, his tone dry as ever.
I raised my glass and clicked it against the edge of the table. "Why not? Let’s celebrate the death of old money—and the birth of new royalty."
From my penthouse window, the city blinked with lights like it knew I had arrived. Not the forgotten girl in the attic. Not the intern with callused hands and a silent cry for help.
I was Krystal Hunter, and the world finally recognized my name.
And this time—
No one would ever take it away.
By nightfall, the headlines were ablaze.
MCLAREN NAME TRANSFERRED. HUNTER GROUP TO LEAD GLOBAL REBRAND.
KRYSTAL HUNTER: FROM ORPHAN TO EMPIRE HEIRESS.
Tomas had sent me the video. Shot discreetly from a cracked kitchen window, it captured pure chaos in that cramped apartment the McLarens were forced to call home now.
Norma was screaming into an unplugged phone, eyeliner smudged, mascara streaking like war paint. “She can’t do this! It’s our name! OUR NAME!”
Elias, still shirtless, was pacing in his ragged slippers. “It’s a bluff. She can’t—she wouldn’t—call my lawyer! Where’s my lawyer?!”
Era was crying into her tablet, refreshing the press conference feed over and over while Venice sat frozen on the floor, looking like a fallen doll, blank-eyed, still recovering from her public humiliation.
MJ was curled in a corner of the couch, champagne spilled on her designer dress, whispering, “She took everything… She was everything…”
And me?
I was at the top of the world. Literally.
Standing on the penthouse balcony, the stars above me, the city lights below, and Darren behind me—warm, strong, and mine.
“Your mother would be proud,” he said, voice low as his arms wrapped around my waist from behind. “Hunter is a damn fine name.”
I tilted my head back, resting against him. “It’s the only name that ever truly belonged to me.”
His lips grazed the curve of my neck, trailing warmth up to my ear. “How does it feel… knowing they finally had to say your name with respect? Even if it choked them?”
I laughed softly, eyes shimmering. “Like sipping champagne after years of swallowing blood.”
The wind blew gently, teasing my silk robe as Darren turned me to face him, his eyes lit with adoration—and heat.
“You burned the ashes of that name and built your own kingdom,” he said. “That makes you my queen.”
“And you,” I whispered, fingers trailing over the firm lines of his chest, “are the only man who ever saw the empress in the maid.”
We kissed. A slow, reverent kind of kiss that tasted of justice and desire.
Because revenge was sweet. But love? Love was eternal.
The Night of the Takeover
The world was watching, but I had never felt more unseen—in the best way possible.
The McLaren name no longer belonged to the family who broke me. It belonged to me.
Or rather, it was gone now—officially absorbed, rebranded, and reborn under a name that echoed my true origin. Hunter.My mother’s name. A name that didn’t reek of manipulation, of fashion week falsity, or curated cruelty.
Hunter Industries.
It felt clean. Raw. Vengeful and beautiful.
I took the elevator up to the penthouse as dusk sank over the skyline, champagne gold bleeding into violet clouds. The city buzzed below, unaware that its power had shifted silently, with silk gloves and bloodless victory.
The second the elevator doors opened, I smelled roses.
Hundreds of them.
They carpeted the hallway leading into my living room. Pale pink. Cream. A few soft orange ones—my mother’s favorite.
I blinked, stunned for the first time in days. And then I saw Darren—shirtless, barefoot, holding two glasses of champagne and a bottle already uncorked. A single red rose tucked behind his ear like some ironic trophy.
“Welcome back, Madame Hunter,” he said with a teasing bow, eyes gleaming. “I hear you own Manhattan now.”
I laughed. For real. The sound surprised even me.
He handed me a flute, and we clinked, soft and slow. The taste of champagne was crisp, chilled—cutting through the heat beginning to pool behind my ribs as his gaze slid from my lips to my legs, then back again.
“I didn’t do this alone,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “But they never would’ve pulled it off without you. The mastermind. The survivor. The phoenix.”
He kissed me then—softly at first, but it built. Like a flame on dry silk.
And just like that, the weight of courtrooms, boardrooms, and press conferences melted off me like a second skin I didn’t need anymore.
I dropped my coat. He caught it without looking, tossing it behind him somewhere into the sea of roses. My dress followed, and his mouth never left mine.
He lifted me with ease, pressing me against the cool marble of the penthouse wall. His hands were everywhere—mapping the outline of a woman remade, a woman who never asked for permission anymore.
“I love when you win,” he murmured into the hollow of my throat.
“I always win,” I gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders, already glistening with heat. “But you make it worth celebrating.”
We didn’t make it to the bedroom. We never did when things felt this electric.
He laid me gently on the plush rug in front of the glass wall, the city lights sprawling behind us like stars on a leash. His kisses were slow tonight—not frantic, not greedy. Just reverent. As if he understood the magnitude of what this night truly meant.
“Say it,” he whispered as his fingers trailed down my waist. “Say it’s yours now.”
“It’s all mine,” I breathed.
The empire. The name. The fire. Him.