Chapter 75 76
Darren Johnson – POV
The first week after Krystal walked into my office, I thought about her more than I should have. Not just the stocks, not just the folder of half-legitimate acquisitions — her. The way she had leaned back in that chair like she owned the place. The way she hadn’t even blinked when I told her my help came at a cost.
I wasn’t used to women like that. Most people who came crawling to me for “cleaning” were desperate — nervous ticks, sweaty palms, whispering like someone was listening. Krystal walked in like she was already paying my retainer in gold.
And the money… the money was good. Stupidly good. Every time I tightened a clause, redrafted a contract, or swept a transaction into a cleaner channel, she signed without hesitation. Wire transfers that cleared within hours, six figures like pocket change.
I knew then I had her — or thought I did.
The funny thing about money? It’s not the amount that tells you who has power. It’s how easily they spend it. Krystal dropped seven hundred grand on “fees” in ten days and didn’t blink. When I teased her about it — “Most clients at least pretend to be shocked when I quote them the number” — she just arched a brow and said:
“Darren, darling, seventy dollar is what I spend on shoes in a good month. Don’t flatter yourself.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
But I filed it away instead. Wealth like that wasn’t casual, and people with that kind of reach always had something sharp behind their smiles.
Still, I couldn’t stop circling closer.
Every late-night call, every document review that ran past midnight — the air between us shifted. I’d hand her a contract, and her fingers would brush mine, deliberate, just enough to spark heat. She’d glance at my glass of bourbon and smirk, “One day you’ll have to drink something sweeter, or you’ll sour that charming smile of yours.”
I wasn’t sure if she was mocking me or flirting. Maybe both.
But the more I worked with her, the more I wanted to know what she wasn’t saying. Because I could tell — she was holding something back. Her acquisitions weren’t reckless. They were too perfect. Every risk I “cleaned” lined up with a hidden advantage for her. It should have bothered me, but instead, it thrilled me.
Maybe I wanted to catch her out. Maybe I wanted to see what would happen if she finally lost control in front of me.
Or maybe — and I hated admitting this even to myself — I just wanted her to look at me the way she looked at those numbers on the page. Like I was worth more than a seven-figure transfer.
Krystal Hunter – POV
If Darren Johnson thought I was impressed by his bourbon-soaked swagger, he was adorably mistaken.
I fed him deals like candy, each one sweeter than the last — acquisitions that looked messy enough to “require” his brilliance, but were really stepping stones I’d already set in place. He polished the edges, strutted around like a king, and never realized I was arranging the entire board underneath his hands.
Seventy dollars in “fees”? Worth every cent. I could’ve paid triple, and it still wouldn’t scratch the surface of what these moves would yield. That’s the beauty of money: spend it fast, make it faster.
Still, I let him think he was winning. Let him watch me cross my legs just so in his office chair, let him taste a sliver of my smile when he pushed the papers across the desk. He wanted to seduce me, to own me. Fine. Men like Darren always did. But what made him interesting was how badly I wanted to let him try.
Tomas asked me one night, while we were rebalancing the accounts at TK Base, why I bothered with Darren at all.
“Because,” I said, licking pistachio ice cream from the back of my spoon, “there’s something satisfying about letting a man think he’s seducing you when he’s really signing your checks.”
Tomas snorted. “You like playing with fire.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But sometimes fire makes diamonds.”
And that was the dangerous part, wasn’t it? Somewhere between the paperwork, the sass, and the money flying like champagne foam, I’d started to wonder what it would be like if Darren ever figured out the truth.
Would he hate me?
Or would he want me even more?
Either way, the game wasn’t over. It was only just getting fun.
Darren Johnson – POV
Problem upon problem. They were stacking faster than I could swat them down, like some sick game of financial whack-a-mole.
First, my brother.
Goddamn Peter. He’d always been the weaker one, the sentimental fool who thought our name and connections meant the world owed him a soft landing. But this time? He’d borrowed against assets I didn’t even know he had access to — family holdings tied up in trusts — and now creditors were circling like vultures.
Then my mother.
Hospitals smelled like bleach and despair, and the call that morning had nearly floored me: she’d collapsed, and now the doctors were saying “complications” and “no guarantees.” I could afford the best care, but even unlimited money couldn’t buy back time. Every time I stepped into her private room, watching the machines breathe for her, I felt like a little boy again — powerless, useless, angry.
And if that wasn’t enough, today’s cherry on top: a bounced check.
A bounced check.
Me. Darren Johnson. The man who’d built an empire on airtight contracts and cash that flowed like water. Watching a bank statement where six zeroes should have been — and instead, an ugly red stamp: Insufficient Funds.
“What the hell is happening?” I muttered, slamming the papers against my desk so hard the tumbler of bourbon rattled. “Why does everything I work for… fall apart the second I touch it?”
Because that’s what it felt like — like I was cursed. Like the ground was shifting under my feet faster than I could plant them.
I’d clawed my way up from nothing, built this empire brick by brick, deal by deal. I knew the game better than anyone. No one outmaneuvered me. No one. And yet…
My phone buzzed. Another problem waiting for me in a neat digital message. I didn’t even check it. Couldn’t. Not right now.
I leaned back in my chair, hands pressed over my face, and let the silence of the office swallow me.
I thought about Krystal.
Sharp, poised, fearless Krystal — who tossed around two figures like spare change and never flinched at the dirt I cleaned up for her. She was supposed to be the easy win in all this chaos. The distraction. The prize I could wrap my hands around while everything else burned.
So why did I have the sinking suspicion that every time I reached for her, she was already five steps ahead of me?
Why did it feel like the walls were closing in — and she was the one holding the key?