Chapter 68 69
The next few weeks was silent on the surface, but to men like Elias McLaren and Darren Johnson, I knew silence felt like a noose tightening around their necks. They were smart enough to sense the storm—but not smart enough to escape it.
And so, the next step of my plan began.
Darren Johnson—Mr. Golden Boy—had the mayor in his pocket. But like all powerful men, he had one fatal weakness: a woman who had him by the neck. Mrs. Valmorra. The Mayor’s wife. Beautiful, refined, a socialite with just enough intellect to play power games, but still vain and insecure enough to be manipulated. She dressed like wealth, moved like wealth, and breathed influence. Everyone wanted her attention. Including Darren. Especially Darren.
Because he stole from her.
So… I made it happen. An accidental meeting. Thoroughly planned.
I had Tomas scout her favorite café—Le Corbeau, a Parisian-style coffeehouse nestled in a discreet luxury block in Manhattan. Not loud like a Starbucks, not cold like a finance tower lounge. It was warmth wrapped in gold. The scent of 1 cent Ethiopian espresso and hand-ground Venezuelan dark roast filled the air. Tables were arranged with quiet intimacy—round marbled surfaces, brass-gilded lamps, and polished gold tableware. Waiters in cream linen moved with the quiet of ballet dancers. Classical music played softly—Vivaldi, I think. Or maybe Rachmaninoff. It didn’t matter. The place smelled like money, exclusivity, and pride.
The patrons were exactly who you'd expect. Young tech CEOs with three phones on the table, writers pretending to work on novels, luxury brand consultants, and high-end lawyers in sharp suits. Everyone came dressed to be seen, but no one acknowledged anyone else. That was the culture. The more expensive it was, the quieter it became.
Mrs. Valmorra sat in her favorite spot: second table from the window, facing outward, where the light kissed her cheekbones and the sidewalk view reminded everyone passing by that she was her own brand. She had her signature cappuccino—extra hot, double foam, two tiny packets of brown sugar. She wore Valentino, with a Chanel purse, diamond studs small enough to whisper “class” but big enough to shout “old money.”
I sat one table behind. Just behind her, quietly sipping a dark latte I didn't even like. Tomas and I had planned this.
Two masked men—actors I hired for the hour—rushed into the café at 9:47 AM, right on time. One snatched her laptop bag and purse. The other grabbed her phone from the marble table. It was clean, swift, just enough chaos to not alert the cops. The staff was stunned, the guests gasped—but they knew better than to get involved. It was a café of observers, not heroes.
Mrs. Valmorra stood up, flustered, cheeks red in shock. She stammered at the waitstaff, desperate for her phone. Her wallet was inside the bag. She couldn’t even pay for her drink.
I took a breath.
I stood.
I was dressed in a custom-tailored Saint Laurent white power suit, double-breasted, with gold accents at the cufflinks. Givenchy stilettos, glinting under the chandelier light. A limited-edition Birkin in ash grey sat neatly on my arm. Around my neck, a vintage Cartier pendant. On my wrist, a Rolex Cosmograph Daytona. My lipstick? Tom Ford. My confidence? Hunter-blooded.
I turned, offering the softest smile. “Excuse me… you seem to be in a bit of trouble. Please—let me take care of your bill.”
She looked at me, slightly startled, like a bird caught in the wind. “I… oh… that’s very kind of you. I just—my phone… my bag—”
“No need to explain.” I handed the waiter my Hunter Holdings platinum card. One of our shell company cards, backed with more than enough funds from silent shares I bought across America and Europe. “Put her bill and anything else she wants today on me.”
The waiter bowed. She blinked.
“I’m Krystal Hunter,” I said, offering a sleek, embossed business card Tomas had made. CEO of Hunter Holdings—a shell company, yes, but with silent legitimate shares spread across the world's most profitable industries. No one knew it yet, but I owned pieces of the next decade’s future. Real estate, technology, clean energy, luxury brands, food chains—even shares in her husband's political PR firm. Quietly, I had purchased them all.
She stared at the card, then back at me. “Hunter… as in…”
“East Coast. Quiet family. Old investments. Mostly in Europe.” I smiled. “We tend to stay out of the headlines.”
She took the seat across from me when I invited her. Flattered. Curious. Grateful.
We talked. About fashion. About Paris. About the new La Mer product line. I threw in a few obscure names of art dealers and Swiss investors. She believed all of it. She laughed—just a bit too much. I complimented her dress, her ring. I knew how to make her feel like I wanted to be her friend.
By the end of the hour, I had her phone number, her private email, and an invitation to an exclusive fundraising gala next month.
She had no idea I was the woman who was going to dismantle her husband's golden boy—and her lover—Darren Johnson.
All she saw was another woman who seemed just a little richer, a little more mysterious, and a lot more powerful than her.
Perfect.
Let the next move begin.
The next evening, the Valmorra mansion unfurled before me like a gilded oasis—a private estate nestled on acres of manicured lawns, ivy-clad fountains, and discreet marble statues that glowed softly under the floodlights. A valet cracked open the door as I stepped out of my white limo, revealing the silhouette of the house: white pillars, golden trim, and balconies stacked with glass chandeliers. Every detail screamed wealth—but subtle, untouchable wealth. Not the brash kind that screams “look at me”—more the kind that whispers, you wish you had this.
I smiled at my mirrored reflection as the valet offered his arm. Tonight, I would be the story.
I walked in with confidence wedged between the hem of my gown and the tips of my secrets. A deep burgundy velvet Jean-Louis Sabaji dress hugged my curves in all the right places; its subtle train echoed faintly behind me on the marble floor. Around my neck, a simple strand of perfect white pearls—but clasped in gold, the kind that wasn’t just a clasp—it was an heirloom. On my wrist, a Patek Philippe Perpetual Calendar in platinum. I cradled a custom Birkin—the rarest SI in pink crocodile—not a show-off, but a trophy.
Music floated overhead. A string quartet playing a modern rendition of Debussy. Waiters passed trays of blinis with caviar—Oscietra, I’d bet. A neighboring table had a tower of imported cheeses, Iberico ham carved by a chef in starched white. Crystal glasses were topped with champagne that showered like fireworks when tapped.
Mrs. Valmorra greeted me with dramatic flair: “Darling, welcome to my little world!”
She looked radiant in a midnight blue gown, diamonds blinking at her throat. She guided me toward a semi-circle of elite socialites clustered next to the grand fireplace. They were upper-class legend incarnate: oil heirresses, NGO board chairs, political wives—each carrying a glass of pink champagne and secrets in their designer clutches.
I took my seat at the center—pre-chosen by the hostess—nestled between Mrs. Valmorra and Mrs. Beaumont, the daughter of a shipping magnate who’d recently announced her divorce. I smiled politely, uncrossed my legs, and let the hush settle. Then, I greeted them softly:
“Good evening,” I said, voice velvet and crisp—like silk on ice.