Chapter 76 77
Krystal POV
The next week was nothing but silence in Darren Johnson’s office.
But silence didn’t mean peace. It meant implosion.
And the man who once sat so high on his leather chair, with his polished shoes and untouchable smirk, had no idea his carefully constructed tower was collapsing brick by brick.
He thought he was the one playing chess. He didn’t realize I’d already moved his king into checkmate.
Darren’s mother had died three days ago. A quiet, pitiful funeral—barely a dozen attendees, mostly relatives who were there only for the gossip. No wreaths from powerful clients. No colleagues from his old firm. Even the priest rushed through the prayers. Darren stood there hollow-eyed, trying to hold his younger brother together… except his younger brother didn’t last.
The shame of being exposed online, the bullying, the endless stream of “Johnson the Fraud” hashtags—he couldn’t take it. And one night, the man who once clung to Darren as his only role model… ended it.
Darren had to bury two family members in the same week.
And still, the world wasn’t done with him.
His brother’s wife packed her bags. I made sure she found the evidence—screenshots Tomas dug up, accounts that Darren brother didn’t even remember setting up, little digital breadcrumbs we planted just for her. She confronted him in his office, shouting about betrayal, about stolen money, about lies. Security had to escort her out.
And Darren? Darren sat there at his desk, head in his hands, while every phone call that came in was another client cutting ties. Another investor pulling out. Another friend suddenly “too busy” to answer.
Now came the real dagger.
“Ready?” Tomas’s voice crackled through my phone as I stood by the window of my penthouse, rain streaking down the glass.
“Do it,” I whispered, sipping my wine.
With one keystroke, the Mayor’s wife received the anonymous email. Attached: a neat PDF showing her secret Swiss account. Every cent she’d hidden from her husband, siphoned over the years into Darren’s control. Gone. Vanished. And the trail—oh, the beautiful trail—pointed straight to Darren.
She screamed. She raged. And the next morning, her fury echoed through every hallway of City Hall. I could almost hear her shrill voice from across town:
“DARREN JOHNSON STOLE MY MONEY!”
The irony was delicious. Darren hadn’t touched a single dime of hers. I had. With Tomas’s magic hands, we moved her fortune into a ghost account that she would never be able to trace. All she would ever see was Darren’s name.
By noon, the Mayor himself was on a warpath, slamming fists on desks, swearing revenge on the man who had once been his golden lawyer.
And me? I sat in the corner of a quiet café, hoodie pulled up, coffee steaming in front of me, scrolling through the chaos on my phone. Headlines, whispers, leaked screenshots. The city was eating Darren alive.
I smirked to myself.
He thought he was clever. He thought he could play me. He thought love and betrayal could be balanced against money.
But now he was learning the truth.
Money might make the world move, but revenge?
Revenge makes it burn.
And Darren Johnson was burning, piece by piece.
And I wasn’t done yet.
Darren POV
What the hell happened?
Why did this—why did all of this—happen to me?
I was careful. I knew I was careful. Every file locked. Every account encrypted. Every client handled with precision. I built my empire brick by brick, clawed my way from nothing. I kept my enemies close, my secrets closer.
So how the fuck did everything fall apart in a week?
First, my mother. She was fragile, yes, but she was fine. Then out of nowhere—gone. The call came while I was still drafting contracts. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
Then my brother… Jesus. He couldn’t take the pressure, the shame. I thought I could shield him. I told him the noise would pass. It always passed. But it didn’t. Not this time.
And his wife. God. She stood in the middle of my office, begging me to help her clear my brother’s name, holding papers she was never supposed to see. Screenshots, transfers, notes I never wrote, accounts I didn’t open.
Now, the Mayor’s wife—Christ. She stormed into my office like a hurricane, waving her phone, spitting fire in front of my staff. She had proof. Proof that I took her money. Money I never touched. I tried explaining, but she slapped me across the face and told me I’d ruined her life. That her husband would bury me alive.
And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
The Mayor called me himself. His voice was low, dangerous. “You better pray, Johnson, that I don’t send someone to dig your grave tonight.”
I sat there, alone in my office, shaking.
Files scattered. Phone buzzing nonstop. My inbox flooding with lawsuits, cancellations, betrayals. Clients I’d defended for years were gone. Doors that used to open with a phone call slammed in my face.
I stared at the reflection in the dark glass window. My tie was loose. My shirt wrinkled. I didn’t recognize myself.
How? How?
Who was pulling these strings?
I thought of Krystal.
No. Impossible. She was… no. She wouldn’t—
Except… maybe she would.
I rubbed my face, tugged at my hair, and whispered into the silence of my collapsing empire:
“I was careful. I was careful.”
But the walls were closing in.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how to fight back.
The walls of his office felt smaller every day. The curtains seemed heavier. The clock louder. He was snapping at people who hadn’t done anything—his secretary quit last week, his paralegal hadn’t shown up for days.
Emails started disappearing. Entire case files went missing from his computer. Passwords he swore he never changed were suddenly invalid.
“It’s the Mayor. He’s cutting me off.”
“No—it’s the governor. He’s had it out for me for years.”
“Or maybe it’s Tomas… that little rat always hated me.”
He replayed everything. His brother’s death. His mother’s funeral. Who leaked the news? Who turned the press against him?
He started making lists in the middle of the night, scrawled across yellow legal pads: Possible Enemies.
Mayor’s wife.
The Judge from ’18.
Norman from college.
Raven Anderson.
Ivy McLaren?
Krystal? I don't think so.
By the time he reached the bottom, his handwriting looked unhinged.
He slept on the couch of his office, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. His shirt always wrinkled, tie loose, stubble uneven. The great Darren Johnson looked like a washed-up gambler hiding from debt collectors.
And still, no clear enemy. Just shadows.
He swore the man in the lobby yesterday had followed him. He heard footsteps behind him on the subway platform. The reflection in the window sometimes looked like it smirked when he didn’t.
Paranoia became his daily oxygen.
He was rotting from the inside—and Krystal, from the shadows, never had to lift a finger in his sight.
Few days later.
The world didn’t feel real anymore.
The neon lights of the casino glared too bright, too artificial, like someone had smeared glow paint over a corpse and called it alive. The air reeked of desperation—cheap perfume, spilled whiskey, sweat, and the faint burn of cigarette smoke that clung to the ceiling despite the “No Smoking” signs plastered everywhere.
Darren Johnson sat at the blackjack table, his tie hanging loose, his eyes bloodshot, and his wallet lighter than it had ever been in his life. He told himself he was here to win it all back. To prove the universe hadn’t completely abandoned him.
Just one win. One big win. That’s all it would take.
He slapped down a stack of bills that made the dealer raise a brow. “All in,” Darren muttered, his jaw clenched.
The dealer dealt the cards. Darren’s hands shook as he flipped them.
Seventeen.
The man next to him—a loud tourist in a Hawaiian shirt—laughed when Darren asked for a hit.
“Bold move,” the tourist jeered, sipping his watered-down gin and tonic.
The dealer slid the card across. A five.
Twenty-two.
Bust.
The tourist howled with laughter. Darren’s stomach churned as the dealer swiped away his chips like they were crumbs on a dirty table.