Chapter 58 58
Monday morning. 7:02 a.m.
I was already awake, perched by the kitchen island as Dessa plated a perfect French breakfast in front of me—fluffy scrambled eggs with herbs, a petite croissant still warm from the oven, and a delicate espresso with a twist of lemon on the side.
“Do you want fruit, mademoiselle?” she asked, already reaching for the imported figs.
“No need,” I said, brushing off imaginary crumbs from the counter. “I’m not here to be sweet today.”
She gave me a look but said nothing, and I liked that about her.
I took my time. Ate slowly. Thought carefully.
Because today wasn’t just about visiting Darren Johnson.
Today was about looking him in the eye and making sure he had no clue who I really was.
By 9:00 a.m., I was dressed and ready.
A tailored Dior suit, black with crisp white accents, hugged my frame like it had been stitched onto my soul. The blazer’s collar was sharp enough to cut a rumor in half. My slacks flowed like liquid elegance when I walked, and I’d chosen Prada heels—sleek, sensible, and loud on marble floors when I wanted them to be.
No diamonds, no statement necklaces.
Just a single pearl earring in each lobe.
Because sometimes, less wasn’t just more—it was lethal.
Hair tied in a neat twist. Makeup matte, neutral, and professionally done. I looked like the kind of woman who belonged in the Kingsley Building—smart, self-contained, and probably richer than half its tenants.
Exactly the kind of woman Darren Johnson would meet without question.
Suite 28.
The Kingsley Building didn’t change much—still too cold in the lobby, still polished floors that made your footsteps echo just enough to remind you you weren’t average.
I took the elevator alone.
On the way up, I read through the false paperwork Tomas had prepared for me: Hunter Legal Forms - Name Change Request. It looked legitimate because it was. The alias, Krystal M. Hunter, passed every background check a firm like Darren’s would do.
Inside the folder was a quiet little story: wealthy heiress wanting to separate from her toxic family lineage. Legal surname change. Financial implications with decent trusts, few offshore assets, and a frozen legacy properties. Nothing illegal. Just enough to intrigue a top-tier lawyer with a God complex.
I arrived exactly on time. Not early. Not late.
The receptionist looked up. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”
“I do. Krystal Hunter. Here to consult with Mr. Darren Johnson about a high-profile surname change involving international financial assets and legacy restructuring.”
A pause. She blinked, then checked the screen.
“Yes, Ms. Hunter. He’s ready for you. Right this way.”
Perfect.
The Office.
The walls were a soft grey, modern art hanging in curated restraint. A walnut bookshelf stood behind his desk, each title perfectly aligned like soldiers waiting for inspection. The air smelled of leather, cedar, and polished ambition.
And then there he was.
Darren Johnson.
Tall. Still handsome. Tailored navy suit with a faint pinstripe. Clean-shaven. Hair slicked back with just enough grey at the temples to imply authority. He stood when I entered, smiled professionally, and offered his hand.
“Ms. Hunter. A pleasure.”
I shook it, cool and smooth. “Likewise, Mr. Johnson.”
Of course, he didn’t recognize me. After all, I've gone back in time and this time we weren't lovers yet and he didn't betray me yet.
Not even a flicker of doubt in his expression. Just another potential client with money and a complex file.
Good.
Because I recognized everything.
The way he stood, legs angled slightly as if to project openness while still commanding the room. The way his eyes scanned my face, my folder, my shoes. Judging net worth, social clout, and potential leverage in a single glance. He hadn't changed.
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” I said, settling in and placing the folder neatly on the desk between us. “This won’t take long. I’m looking to separate my surname legally. I have reasons—family history, inheritance politics, reputation cleanup.”
“Of course,” he said, already clicking his pen. “From what to what?”
“From McLaren to Hunter,” I said evenly, not flinching.
His pen paused. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly. Then continued.
“I see. And you are currently managing any McLaren-affiliated trust accounts or frozen legacy assets?”
I lied, I made a mistake of telling him more before, this time, I'll give him what I wanted to tell him, “Yes. I’ve already secured asset control through offshore channels, but I want the paperwork and legal identity restructured. Internationally. Seamlessly.”
He nodded, scribbling something. “This is doable. Complicated, but doable. We’ll need to draft filings across three countries minimum. U.S., Switzerland, and possibly Singapore if any accounts are linked.”
“They are,” I replied.
No smile. No anger. Just business.
I kept my expression neutral, bordering on bored. Leaned back slightly in my seat. Eyes half-lidded, like this wasn’t personal at all.
Because the worst thing you can do to a man like Darren?
Is act like he doesn’t matter.
He went on for twenty minutes about procedure, jurisdiction, financial shielding, and potential media blowback. I nodded in all the right places. Asked one or two sharp questions. I watched him sweat—not literally, of course—but mentally. He didn’t like clients who knew too much. I liked that.
When we were nearly done, he closed the folder and folded his hands. “This is... a bold move, Ms. Hunter. May I ask—what triggered the name change now?”
I smiled, faint but polite. “Clarity. I’m not trying to erase my past. I just don’t want it following me.”
He nodded slowly. Still no suspicion. “Well,” he said, standing. “We can get started immediately. My team will draft a contract, and I’ll personally review your documents.”
“Perfect. Send everything to the email I gave your assistant.”
“Of course.”
He reached out again. I shook his hand with the same cool, unbothered grace I entered with.
And then I turned.
As I walked down the corridor, heels clicking sharply, I felt the quiet buzz in my veins.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know that another lifetime ago, he helped steal everything from the girl who now just waltzed into his office looking like old money dipped in vengeance.
He didn’t know that I’d just placed a pawn on the board while he was looking for the queen.
And he had no idea that the real legal war hadn’t even begun.
Not yet.