Chapter 72 73
Krystal POV
Back at the TK base, I was cross-legged on the floor, spicy ramen steaming beside me, a tray of mochi and matcha chocolates at arm’s reach. My version of dinner—and war fuel. The screens in front of me flickered with real-time updates, chat logs, and data dumps like digital confetti.
“Tomas,” I called through a mouthful of noodles, “tell me you have something good.”
Tomas didn’t disappoint.
He leaned against the edge of the table, a tablet in hand. “We’ve cracked into a few old school records, private legal files, and some encrypted alumni message boards. It's deeper than just Darren and Jeremy now.”
“Go on,” I said, slurping loudly. My mouth burned from the heat, but it was oddly satisfying—just like what I was about to do.
“We’ve confirmed that Jeremy’s name was scrubbed from two other assault cases during college. Different schools. Different victims. Money changed hands every time.”
“Disgusting,” I muttered. “And Darren?”
“Still trying to bury the rooftop case, but the original police report was never deleted. One of my guys found a backup on a retired cop’s personal drive. We’ve secured it.”
“Good. Send the backup to three independent journalists. Tell them it’s time to eat.”
Tomas raised a brow. “You’re not done, are you?”
I smirked.
“No. Because it’s time we added another name to the list.” I pulled up a photo and threw it on the screen.
Raven Anderson.
My ex. The charming golden boy of our university days. The one who dumped me. For MJ McLaren—my stepsister… and cousin. Because in my messed-up family tree, those titles could coexist.
I used to cry about it. Now?
I grinned as I finished the last bite of mochi.
“I want everything on Raven. His finances, his investments, his sugar mamas. He looked clean, but I know there’s rot under that fake-smile skin.”
Tomas grinned. “Already ahead of you. His startup failed last year, but his Instagram says he’s living in Bali. Something doesn’t add up.”
“Good. Trace it. And dig into MJ McLaren while you’re at it. Every plastic surgeon, every scandal, every under-the-table deal Daddy tried to erase. She may look like a glowing influencer, but I want the filters stripped. I want to see the dirt.”
I leaned back, ramen bowl empty, lips tingling from the spice. This—this was the real me. Not the glittering heiress, not the polite girlfriend smiling for charity events.
No. I was the virus in their perfectly manicured world.
And tonight, I was hungry.
I spent the afternoon in my old small apartment, now TK base, the blinds half-drawn, laptop glowing in the dim light. Tomas had already delivered Raven and MJ’s data—a neat folder full of screenshots, email threads, schedules, and even their “secret” friend groups. I stared at their smiling faces on my screen, my stomach tightening with the same old burn.
The first step was identity. I needed someone that didn’t exist, yet looked too perfect to ignore.
Her name became Arielle Kane.
Profile photo? A face lifted from a little-known Parisian model’s old photoshoot—elegant, untouchable, but not famous enough to be traced. A personality? A mix of confidence and vulnerability, a girl “new to the city” looking to network.
In two hours, Arielle had a carefully curated feed—pictures of late-night coffees, stacks of books, moody shots by the sea. I followed Raven from a mutual group Tomas had given me. Within a day, he followed back.
Hook, line, sinker.
Raven was predictable. He liked every second or third post, then slid into my DMs with the casual arrogance of a man who thought he was subtle. I didn’t bite—not right away. I made him work for it, replying only hours later, dropping vague compliments, letting him wonder.
At the same time, MJ became my next pet project.
I followed her through a different account—a business profile with just enough “investment opportunities” to spark her greed. She liked the posts about luxury handbags and passive income. Typical. I sent her a private message about a “potential collaboration.” She replied in under an hour.
Two lines cast into the water, both starting to pull.
Tomas texted me that night:
Tomas: “Both of them are nibbling at the bait. You’re a scary woman, Krystal.”
I smirked at my screen, typing back:
Me: “I’m just getting started.”
Darren Johnson – POV
Mrs. Valmorra had that look again — the one where her voice dipped low, like she was passing me classified intel instead of gossip over her oversized cappuccino.
"I heard about Krystal Hunter," she said, leaning forward. "Her prediction on those mid-cap tech stocks? Every single one of them doubled in less than a week."
I kept my expression neutral, swirling my coffee as if I hadn’t already heard whispers about Krystal from three other sources. People called her lucky, brilliant, or dangerously connected — depending on who you asked.
"That so?" I said casually, though my mind was already sifting through the implications. Mrs. Valmorra didn’t bring up names like hers without a reason.
She nodded slowly, eyes glittering. "It wasn’t luck. She told a friend at the country club before it happened. Exact numbers. Exact companies. Now, the city’s elite are lining up to get a seat at her table."
I sat back, letting her words settle. In my world, people who made perfect predictions didn’t stay in one piece for long — unless they had serious protection or knew exactly whose pockets to fill.
"Interesting," I murmured. What I meant was dangerous. If Krystal’s predictions were real, they were worth more than gold — and more than a few people would kill for them.
Mrs. Valmorra gave me a knowing smile, like she’d just handed me the corner piece of a much bigger puzzle.
I smiled back, already thinking about how this Krystal Hunter fit into the game I was playing.