Chapter 69 70
At that moment, Tomas’s voice pulsed discreetly in my earpiece:
Natalie Beaumont had her husband's business crash six months ago. He's offshore now. Her Birkin is counterfeit, made for her by a handbag ring—but she can’t know I know that. Just a whisper tonight.
I raised one brow, turned to Mrs. Beaumont with genuine sympathy, and murmured, “So sorry to hear about your husband’s struggles. I happen to work in equities—if you ever want to diversify from private jets to liquid assets, I’d be happy to assist confidentially.”
Her eyes brightened. A faint sheen of relief—or hope.
Good. From there, the women began to lean in.
Mrs. Valmorra introduced me: “Ladies, this is Krystal Hunter—CEO of Hunter Holdings. Krystal—meet the elite.”
They nodded, curious but cautious.
I let the conversation flow: “I’ve been investing quietly in companies before they boomed—food chains, telecom, clean energy, luxury hospitality. I keep things low-key—no publicity, just returns.” I sipped pink champagne, minding the fizz.
Politely name-drop Knight Frank RE trusts; mention Berkshire-backed bonds. Tomas whispered.
I repeated it like gospel. Heads tilted. They wrote it down—or would remember. Good.
One of them said she’s looking for a female-led fund manager. Tomas piped in.
I turned to Mrs. Harrison in the fur stole. “You might want to consider Fairvale Capital—Helen Ramirez is female-led, based in Zurich. Solid returns.”
She nearly choked on her salmon canapé.
The quartet shifted to Gershwin’s Summertime. The women swayed with their champagne, and someone murmured, “I told you she was intelligent.” Another said, “She has it.” Another—quiet, older—maybe thinking she was queen—rolled her eyes. I smiled at her too.
That’s when Tomas issued the strategic note:
That skeptical older woman? Her husband is dating an undergrad in New York. Pics surfaced last week; he travels three flights per week unseen. She’s hiding from a PR scandal. Only one snapshot broke on Page Six.
I nudged her gently, “So sorry, I wouldn’t pry—but I did read something disturbing about your husband’s recent travel activity.”
Her lacquered gloves tightened around her flute. She glanced away. I raised my glass, murmured warmly, “If you ever need a second opinion…”
Her smile was brittle. Social veneer cracked.
Mrs. Valmorra leaned in, gossip-watchful. “Krystal, you’re brilliant. Where did you grow up? Europe?”
I smiled. “Primarily London and Geneva.” A few seamless lies about Harvard Business and family trusts. Tomas typed PDF biography into my secure server the minute I walked in. The internet knew me tonight. Picture-perfect. Untouchable. They asked questions: “Real estate? Stocks? What about cannabis markets? Tech IPOs?” I answered them all, sparing nothing, feigning just-above-it mystery while also broadcasting seeds of curiosity: Call me.
By the end of the night, they wanted to meet again. They asked for business cards (Tomas printed thirty). One executive offered me her designer pen in exchange for a one-on-one breakfast. Another CEO’s wife whispered “I want your calendar” when she thought I wasn’t listening.
I ended the conversation with grace: “My pleasure, truly. I’ll send details—feel free to pass them along in trust. Discretion matters most in our world.”
Later, in the limo home, I replayed the evening in my mind:
Their eyes searching for me online and not finding anything but the website I built.
The way Mrs. Beaumont’s face softened at investment suggestions.
Mrs. Harrison’s gratitude for the financial tip that could salvage her public image.
Mrs. Valmorra’s pride pushing me into their circle—at her gala no less.
This was deliberate. A slow takeover. I fed them hope tonight. They’d ask their husbands.
They’d relay my suggestions forward. They’d bake my name into whispers for weeks.
By the time those stock picks went up, I’d be their broker and their connection.
The real power wasn’t in the money—they had it. It was in control.
At 1:30 AM, right before sleep called, Tomas pinged me:
It’s done. Media outlets are running follow-up on the café robbery. Valencia & Sons PR firm picked it up. They're pitching you as the generous stranger. URLs will trend tomorrow.
I smiled, exhaustion slipping into satisfaction.
“Brilliant,” I replied.
The storm wasn’t coming. It had arrived. They just didn’t know where to look. And as I drifted to sleep in my penthouse overlooking the city’s hum, I thought:
Elite socialites, meet your new queen.
My phone buzzed on the Louis XVI side table—one of those silent pings that felt like victory whispering in Morse code.
Mrs. Valmorra:
Darling, I simply must have your insight. I haven’t stopped thinking about your tips last night. We’re excited to invest. Are you free for tea this Thursday at my suite in The Pennington?
I smirked, swirling the amber liquid in my Baccarat crystal glass, letting the gold-flecked cognac catch the morning sun streaming through the penthouse windows. “Hooked,” I murmured, tapping my freshly polished nail against the rim.
Tomas' voice crackled in my earpiece, amused. “Another one worshipping at the altar of Saint Krystal?”
“Obviously,” I murmured. “Schedule tea with Mrs. Valmorra. And prepare three more company dossiers. Something volatile, something new, and something safe.”
“On it. Oh, and we just got into Era’s boyfriend’s Instagram account. Shall we?”
“Slow burn,” I said with a smile. “But yes, start planting seeds.”
A few days later, I received another invitation wrapped in gold—sunlight spilling like liquid wealth across the white marble drive of the Mayor’s estate, which sat perched on the city’s most exclusive hill. This was Valmorra's biggest mansion, bigger than the previous one, its private gates humming with security codes and pedigrees. You couldn’t just walk in. You had to belong.
And I did now. Well, I was here making small smiles with this idiotic elite because Mrs. Valmorra asked for help from some elite family who dared to defy their name. Of course because I'm petty and I'm smart. I accepted her invitation just to mess up someone’s night for fun and to make more connections.
I stepped out of the Rolls-Royce Ghost, its chrome details polished to vanity, not utility. Tomas had arranged the driver, the valet, even the soft-spoken attendant who opened the door for me with a slight bow and a “Ms. Hunter, welcome.” I liked the way that sounded—Ms. Hunter. Like danger wrapped in elegance.
I walked past fountains carved from imported Carrara marble, where koi fished lazily in water as clear as Perrier. A footman offered a tray—Veuve Clicquot served in slender flutes rimmed with crushed raspberries and edible gold leaf. I took it, not because I was thirsty, but because that’s what powerful women do—they hold something expensive without ever appearing to need it.
The estate was obscene in its elegance.
The party itself had already begun. A string quartet played Debussy somewhere behind the giant silk-draped terrace. Chandeliers—not just any chandeliers, but Murano crystal—swung gently in the breeze like glowing icebergs hanging over polished Italian floors. Women shimmered in gowns that ranged from Oscar de la Renta to custom Chanel, while their husbands talked in groups about shipping rates, construction permits, oil trade, and political alliances—all of which I had dossiers on.
I wasn’t just dressed for the occasion. I was the occasion.
I wore a custom Elie Saab evening gown, champagne silk embroidered with silver-threaded vines that looked like nature itself had been sewn into cloth. On my wrist: a Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime, so rare that there are only seven in existence—mine had a custom pink diamond set beside the dial. On my neck: the Pink Legacy Diamond—yes, that one—softly gleaming beneath a cascade of old-European-cut diamonds and platinum links. Around my fingers? Cartier’s Tutti Frutti ring, bold and rare. I was walking royalty.
My shoes? Roger Vivier stilettos, hand-stitched, made from the leather of a calf that had probably lived better than most people.
And my handbag—my weapon—was a Himalaya Birkin with white gold and diamond hardware, auctioned at nearly half a million dollars. It wasn’t just a bag; it was a declaration of war.