Chapter 70 71
“Krystal!” came a delighted voice. Mrs. Valmorra glided toward me like a duchess on parade. She wore a bold green Valentino number and pearls thicker than my fingers, but she looked almost... relieved when she saw me. Like I was the breath of fresh air in a palace of stale luxury.
She took my hands and kissed both cheeks with that European flair. “You look divine,” she whispered. “Wait till the other wives meet you. We’re about to shake up this little hill, darling.”
“Lead the way,” I said with a gracious smile.
As she whisked me away, Tomas murmured in my ear, “We’re in. We’re deep. Mrs. Valmorra just added your contact to her ‘Inner Circle’ group chat. They’ve been talking about Darren’s daughter all morning. Want me to feed Era’s boyfriend some temptations?”
“Not yet,” I whispered beneath my smile. “Tonight, I’m the bait.”
The banquet was spread across the east wing garden, where marble statues and topiary lions watched over long tables of delicacies flown in from every corner of the world.
Caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons.
A cheese tower featuring Beaufort d’Été, Roquefort, and Brillat-Savarin.
Spanish Jamón Ibérico, sliced so thin it melted like truffle butter.
Mini wagyu sliders topped with gold leaf.
Fresh oysters chilled on sculpted ice beds, with Mignonette sauce handmade by a chef from the South of France.
And dessert trays—dear god—the macaron pyramid alone was worth more than some apartments downtown.
But I didn’t eat much. Power doesn’t nibble. Power observes.
I walked among them like a monarch gracing her subjects. I knew their names, their husbands, their companies. Tomas fed me lines through the discreet earpiece hidden behind my curled waves.
“That’s Lenora Gildea,” Tomas murmured. “Her husband’s tech company is under SEC investigation. She’s been moving funds into a wine business in Napa as a smokescreen.”
“Lenora,” I said warmly, “I heard your wine venture is about to become the next acquisition target in Napa. You’re smart to diversify, especially with the heat coming down on fintech.”
She blinked, stunned, then smiled so wide her collagen trembled. “How did you—?”
“Whispers,” I winked. “And I listen well.”
One by one, the women started trailing me. Mrs. Valmorra beamed like a matchmaker who had just introduced Cinderella to Versailles.
They asked me where I came from.
“Oh,” I said casually, “Hunter Holdings is old money. We do investments—discreet ones. Mostly in Europe, but I’m bringing my interests here to the States. Emerging sectors fascinate me. Healthcare, defense, data privacy, that sort of thing.”
“But you’re so young!” one woman exclaimed. “You look like you just got out of university!”
“I did,” I replied with a smile. “Harvard. Dual degree. My professors still email me for guidance.”
When one of them asked if I knew her husband, an oil magnate, I replied gently, “Oh yes. His offshore refinery deal with Sterling Petrochemicals—it’s clever, though the locals are a bit...rowdy about the land acquisition.”
She blanched. “You know about that?”
I just smiled.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted the older woman I had clocked yesterday—tight updo, vintage diamonds, judgmental stare. Her lips were thin with skepticism. Ah, yes. Mrs. Genevieve Rockwell.
I turned to her and smiled sweetly. “Mrs. Rockwell, your Birkin is exquisite. The So Black edition, yes?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, it’s very rare—”
“Indeed. Although, forgive me,” I said, tilting my head, “is it the 2021 remake or the original 2011 production? The remake uses a slightly lower-grade leather—you can tell by the stitching under the flap. I only ask because I have the original and they differ just slightly.”
Her face twitched.
Tomas murmured, “It’s fake. Also, her husband's firm is bankrupt. And she wired fifty grand last month to a certain Travis...college boy in San Diego.”
I gave her a knowing look. “Still, if it’s the 2021, it’s still a beautiful replica.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Silence.
The women turned to look at her bag. And her.
I didn’t gloat. I simply sipped my champagne.
Mrs. Valmorra leaned in and whispered, “I love you.”
“I get that a lot,” I replied lightly.
The night deepened.
Lights twinkled overhead like captured starlight. Somewhere near the private pool, a jazz trio had replaced the quartet, playing a sultry rendition of La Vie En Rose. Waiters in white gloves passed around Sauternes wine and black truffle arancini. Laughter rippled like silk through the air.
Then came the moment I had been waiting for.
“Krystal,” one of the younger wives said shyly, “if you ever start a fund or...accept clients, I’d love to know.”
I tilted my head. “Why? Your husband manages your investments, doesn’t he?”
She flushed. “Yes, but he always buys the wrong stocks. You mentioned Mistral Holdings yesterday, and today it jumped 11%. Just saying.”
“Coincidence,” I replied.
“But if it’s not…”
Mrs. Valmorra joined the conversation. “Darling, you should. These women trust you. We could use someone like you. Someone who knows. You wouldn’t believe the vultures out there.”
And just like that, it had begun.
I was no longer an outsider. I was their oracle. Their secret weapon. Their investment whisperer.
I had infiltrated the upper crust not with charm—but with intellect, wealth, and strategic domination.
And behind me, Tomas was already logging new contacts, flagging bank accounts, and syncing private calendar invites.
As I left the mansion that night, I knew those elites were whispering my name now, because the data I had given to the mayor’s wife about stocks blossomed in two days, and now they were eager for more. Well, I couldn't blame them, they were just like cattle, I fed them expensive grass so I could milk them soon.
The stars overhead were quiet witnesses. I stepped into the waiting Rolls, my heels never faltering, my smile never fading.
But damn, I need spicy Ramen and cheese.
Penthouse. 11:41 PM.
The city lights outside my glass window sparkled like diamonds scattered across a velvet cloth, but I didn’t care. I was slouched on the sleek cream leather couch in nothing but my threadbare college shirt with a half-faded logo of a club I didn’t even remember joining. My hair was up in a loose bun, my feet bare and tucked under me as I scrolled through Tomas’ encrypted chat updates on my tablet.
The door to the kitchen creaked slightly, and the smell of beef-flavored Korean instant ramen wafted through the air. My private chef, a woman trained in French culinary arts who could whip up a truffle soufflé blindfolded, had stared at me blankly when I asked for instant noodles—but like a true professional, he complied.
I slurped my noodles with zero elegance, the spicy broth making my nose sweat and my soul sigh. “Finally,” I whispered into the steam, “something real.”
Because this? This was the real me. Not the heiress of Hunter Holdings. Not the pink-diamond-wearing socialite who danced through the Mayor’s palatial garden and charmed every bored wife with stock tips. Not the glamorous stranger from Europe whose story was so airbrushed it could belong to a luxury perfume ad.
Just me. An ordinary girl in her third life, eating junk food in a decent penthouse, hell-bent on revenge.
I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. “You there, Tomas?”
A beep. Then his voice clicked through the tablet, smooth and low. “Always. You look like a goblin, by the way. That shirt should be illegal.”
“Shut up.” I chuckled, swirling the noodles lazily. “What’s the update on Darren’s precious little brother?”
“Ah, the golden child. You’ll love this.”
The tablet flickered, displaying a dossier. I leaned closer.
“Darren Johnson’s brother—Jeremy Johnson—was arrested for theft at seventeen. He and two of his high school buddies stole a vintage motorbike, crashed it, and left the owner unconscious. The victim, a student two years younger, died two weeks later from a brain bleed.”
I froze mid-slurp.
“No one ever pressed charges?”
“The school covered it up. The parents were paid off—handsomely. Jeremy was sent to a ‘correctional retreat’ in the Swiss Alps, then re-emerged squeaky clean. Top college, shiny corporate job, married rich. Now a financial consultant, a favorite guest in several networking podcasts.”
I scoffed. “Of course he is.”
Tomas continued, “There were whispers, but nothing solid. Until now.”
The image on the screen zoomed in—an old newspaper article from a small local outlet, barely a paragraph about a school scandal. Followed by a buried police report, the names redacted but timestamped just right.
“This... This is delicious,” I whispered. “People adore the Johnsons. Their PR is clean. They were born lucky.”
“No one stays clean when you pull the right threads,” Tomas murmured. “So, shall I spread it?”
“Yes.” I leaned back, grinning. “Leak it. One post at a time. Start with anonymous forums. Crime subreddits. Dig up his high school classmates, especially the ones who hated him. Someone will talk.”
Tomas chuckled. “You really are something else.”
I slurped the last of the ramen and sighed, content. “I’m just tired. But we’re close. Every powerful man has a crack somewhere. We just have to pour the poison slowly.”
The tablet went silent for a beat, then Tomas said quietly, “You know... sometimes I wonder. Are we doing this for justice, or just for sport?”
I stared out the window, eyes reflecting the city below.
“Does it matter?”
Because in this third life of mine, I didn’t ask for grace. I didn’t pray for peace.
I asked for power. And I was getting it—one fake smile, one diamond earring, and one whispered secret at a time.
Now, it was time to start the next fire.