Chapter 54 54
Two blocks later, I entered the coffee shop on the corner. All glass, brass, and whispers of jazz playing from discreet speakers. The scent of cinnamon and espresso clung to the air.
The barista blinked when I walked in—soaked hoodie, dripping shoes, no umbrella—and then smiled politely.
“I’ll have six lattes, two trays of mocha cakes, and... do you still have the vanilla cronuts?”
“Yes, ma’am. Fresh batch just out.”
“Box them.”
Ten minutes later, I left with two large paper bags, steam curling up from the cups inside. I walked with purpose, ignoring the stares. No one expected a girl who looked like a drenched college dropout to walk out of that bank and then drop a 1 cent on pastries.
Good.
Let them wonder.
Let them whisper.
No flashy bags. No screaming logos. No selfies with cards or cups.
Just quiet steps and whispered doom.
This wasn’t about showing off.
It was about making them sweat.
One by one, the McLarens will be crumbling. Elias tried to kill me and failed. The Raven Andersons will be bankrupt. Their shell companies will collapse like paper in the rain. And Darren?
Darren Johnson was next.
I was going to make him paranoid.
Every missed call. Every dropped deal. Every whisper of a shadow he couldn’t trace—I would be there.
He wouldn't know what hit him.
I used to want them to see me rise.
Now I just want them to feel me, closing in.
From the sidelines. In silence.
It was still raining when I knocked on Tita Maribel’s flat—just a soft drizzle now, misty and cold, clinging to my hoodie like a second skin. The faded gray fabric was soaked near the cuffs, and my old sneakers squished faintly with every step. I didn’t mind. There was something grounding about it—the smell of wet cement, rusting railings, and someone’s fried garlic wafting from a window.
The hallway was dim. The fluorescent light above flickered like it was gasping its last breath. But the moment Tita opened the door, it felt warm again.
“Oh hija…” she blinked at me, then at the paper bags stacked in my arms. “What is all this?”
I smiled. “Just coffee, bread, donuts… a few mocha cakes. Oh, and some cronuts. The vanilla kind.”
“You don’t have to…” she muttered, her voice soft but tinged with concern. She motioned for me to come in. The familiar scent of her apartment—lavender, baby powder, and simmering mung beans—wrapped around me like a memory. “Instead of buying this, why not save it for your bills? Your rent? Electricity? There’s still the flat’s water bill, anak.”
I placed the bags on her small kitchen table and looked at her. The same woman who once shared her only can of sardines with me. Who had patched my bruises with ointment and love I didn’t deserve.
“I’ll pay full later, promise,” I said with a soft laugh. Then I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a crisp three-dollar bill. It wasn’t much, but it glimmered between my fingers like a golden ticket.
“This is for you, Tita.”
Her eyes widened, hands trembling as she touched the edges of the bill like it was too delicate to hold. “Aba! Abigail! This is too much. Where did you get this?”
I looked away for a moment, then met her gaze. “I got my inheritance. From my father. He passed. Left me a little something.”
A lie. A smooth, practiced lie I whispered without blinking. I couldn't bring myself to tell her about the betrayal, the scandal. The broken girl I used to be.
She hugged me tightly, her arms thinner than I remembered. “I’m so happy for you, anak. You deserve good things.”
After we ate and she made me hot tea to "warm the soul," I slipped out quietly and went straight to the landlord’s flat two doors down. The man—short, stocky, and perpetually suspicious—opened the door with a grunt. I smiled, handed him two gleaming silver dimes.
“Two months' advance,” I said simply.
His eyes popped. “Huh? Are you sure—?”
I nodded. “I’m sure.”
He looked like he wanted to ask more questions but settled on a toothy smile and a "Thank you, miss.”
Then, umbrella in hand and hoodie pulled tighter, I headed to the mall.
It wasn’t the kind of mall the McLarens would ever step into. The tiles were cracked in places, and the mannequins in the display windows looked like they’d seen better decades. But it had everything I needed.
I bought two pairs of denim jeans—plain, practical, but fit like a dream. A couple of solid-colored shirts. A navy-blue windbreaker. New sneakers. A bag sturdy enough for errands, but soft enough to sling over my shoulder without screaming for attention. Then I bought a new iPhone and laptop because I still need updates.
No labels. No glitter. Just me.
I paid in loose change, cents, dimes, and small bills—watching the cashier’s eyebrow rise with every swipe of her barcode scanner. Still, she bagged them all with a polite nod.
I still had plenty left. Quiet money. Soft power. The kind that sat quietly in your pocket and didn’t demand to be shown off.
On my way home, I passed a group of teenagers huddled beneath the overhang of a seven eleven store. They were watching me. Not because I was flashy, but because something about me had changed.
There was curiosity in their eyes. A strange kind of awe.
Respect.
Maybe they sensed the storm that brewed beneath my calm.
Let them wonder.
Let the rain keep falling and hide my tracks.
Because one day, when the clouds finally cleared, they would all see the hurricane I had become.
And Darren Johnson?
He’d be the first to drown.
The Next Day
The sky was cloaked in a soft gray when I opened my eyes—clouds sagging low with the promise of rain. Distant thunder grumbled like a warning, but I didn’t flinch. I had a goal today. And unlike the old me, I wasn’t going to let the weather or a bad memory stall me anymore.
The room was still, save for the gentle hum of the old electric fan in the corner.
The smell of slightly burnt toast from a neighbor's unit filtered through the thin walls.
I rubbed my eyes, groaned, and sat up on the edge of my cot, feeling the creak of old springs beneath me. A second later, I stood and padded across the room, cold tiles chilling my feet.
In the kitchen nook, I poured myself a bowl of cereal—cheap cornflakes, slightly stale—but still edible. I added a splash of milk, the kind in a flimsy plastic bag I picked up from the convenience store last night. It tasted like childhood, like mornings when I had big dreams and no money. I ate it slowly, the way you savor a small joy.
After rinsing the bowl, I turned the rusty knob of the shower. The water came out freezing at first, making me suck in a sharp breath. But I didn’t complain. I scrubbed thoroughly—like I was washing off everything that had happened before I died. Every scar. Every betrayal. Every name they used to call me.
I got dressed in silence. Black hoodie, thick enough to keep me warm.
My new denim jeans with the hem still uneven from where I cut off the torn part.
My shoes were the new pair from the mall—rubber soles unworn smooth, laces unfrayed at the ends. But they were mine. And today, they were taking me to settle a debt that once defined my worth.
I stepped out with my umbrella tucked under my arm, just as the drizzle started.
The sidewalk shimmered with puddles and the scent of wet pavement mixed with brewing coffee from a corner café.
I passed by familiar street vendors setting up plastic tables, their umbrellas flapping in the wind.
University was fifteen minutes away by foot, twenty if I stopped to think. So I didn’t. I just walked.