Chapter 81 82
Krystal Hunter – POV
The thing about men like Darren Johnson was that they always thought they were leading. Always thought the world bent for them because they leaned the right way.
But I knew better.
I knew him.
Because this wasn’t the first life where Darren walked into my orbit. I’d seen his moves before—the charm, the steel-eyed ambition, the way he could make a woman feel like she was the only one in a room full of billionaires. I’d also seen where it ended. Betrayal. Blood. The deal with the McLarens that cost me everything. My fortune, my family, my life.
But this time? This time the board was mine.
He didn’t know that while he was smirking at me over popcorn and calling me beautiful under the dim flicker of a zombie movie, I was already counting his breaths, cataloging the tilt of his eyes, the slip of hesitation in his voice. Every word, every glance, every little moment where he thought he was clever — I filed it away. A weapon for later.
The movie ended past two. He was stubborn, claiming he’d head home, but I knew better. Darren was exhausted, and exhaustion made him pliable. When I stood and tugged the blanket across the couch, I made sure to sink back down close to him. Shoulder brushing shoulder, knee just grazing his thigh.
“You can stay,” I said lightly, as though it hadn’t been my plan all along. “I hate empty penthouses at night.”
He hesitated — the lawyer in him calculating the optics, the risk. Then, as expected, his body gave in before his mind. He sank lower, suit jacket draped over the armrest, tie loose. Within minutes, his head tilted back, breathing steady, asleep like the world outside wasn’t trying to crush him.
I shifted. Slow, careful. Resting my head in his lap, a picture of vulnerability. The perfect disguise. He stirred once but didn’t wake. His hand fell lightly against the curve of my shoulder, unconscious, protective.
And that was how I made him part of my plan: not with seduction in silk sheets, but with trust.
The morning sun bled across the penthouse windows, catching us in gold. When I opened my eyes, his were still shut, his jaw slack in a rare softness most people never got to see. And me? I was exactly where I wanted to be — curled in his lap, framed by morning light, the picture of intimacy.
He would remember this.
The warmth of me sleeping against him. The illusion that I trusted him enough to fall asleep so close. The memory of waking up with me there would bury itself deep, right where logic could never scrape it away.
I smiled faintly, not the sharp, knowing smile I gave Tomas when we spoke of traps and strategy, but the soft one Darren would see when he opened his eyes. The smile he’d believe was real.
Let him think he was the one saving me from nightmares. Let him believe he was my shield, my anchor, my hero.
Because the more he believed it, the deeper he’d fall. And the deeper he fell, the sweeter my revenge would taste.
Know this, Darren Johnson, I thought as I stretched beneath the blanket, feigning a sleepy sigh. You will be mine without ever knowing it. Every step you take, every choice you make, you’ll think it’s yours. But it will be mine. All mine.
And when the time came — when he was fully, hopelessly in love — vengeance wouldn’t just be justice.
It would be delicious.
Darren Johnson – POV
I woke to sunlight streaking across the room, warm against my face. For a moment, I didn’t recognize where I was. Not my penthouse. Not the firm’s soulless leather couch. This was softer, richer — Krystal’s.
The scent hit me next: eggs, bacon, the rich undercurrent of coffee. Manhattan didn’t smell like this. My mornings usually tasted of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of ambition. But here? Here it smelled like… home.
A laugh floated from the kitchen. Bright, unguarded, the kind that cracked open walls without permission. Hers.
I sat up slowly, running a hand through my hair, and took in the ridiculousness of it all. A billionaire heiress, in her silk-and-glass palace, actually laughing with her chef over scrambled eggs. Of course, she had a chef, and of course the table was already set to perfection — crystal glasses, folded linens, flowers I couldn’t name in a slim vase.
And then she appeared.
Krystal Hunter, newly bathed, her hair damp against her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the steam of her shower. She looked too fresh, too alive for someone who’d been up until two a.m. sassing zombies.
“Morning, stranger.” Her smile was casual, like we hadn’t fallen asleep tangled on her couch. “Breakfast is ready. Don’t worry, you don’t have to fight the undead to earn it.”
“Good,” I muttered, standing and tugging my jacket over my arm, trying to play it cool. “I left my sword at the office.”
Her grin widened as she gestured toward the table. “Sit. Eat. You look like you survive on takeout and bad coffee.”
I opened my mouth to argue — but then she placed a mug in front of me. Coffee. Perfectly balanced. One sugar, one cream. Exactly the way I took it.
I stared at the cup, then at her. “How the hell did you—?”
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Lucky guess.”
“Lucky, my ass.” I took a sip. Smooth, rich, exactly what I needed. It wasn’t luck. It was precision. And that realization both unsettled me and made my chest tighten in some ridiculous way I couldn’t explain.
I leaned back, watching her cut into a piece of toast. “So, you always have a fully catered breakfast at the ready? Or is this part of the whole ‘Hunter charm package’?”
“Please,” she scoffed, eyes glinting. “If I left it to the chef, you’d be drinking kale juice right now. I specifically told him bacon and eggs. Normal food.”
“Normal?” I arched a brow. “For you?”
“Yes, for me. Believe it or not, Darren, I don’t start every morning with champagne and caviar. Some days I want greasy bacon like everyone else.” She pointed her fork at me. “Besides, you don’t look like the kind of man who’d let me live it down if I served you avocado foam and artisanal chia pudding.”
I laughed, actually laughed, and shook my head. “You’d be right.”
She grinned triumphantly, like she’d just won something small but important.
For a while, we ate in companionable silence — the clink of silverware, the occasional shared smirk. I wasn’t used to this. My mornings were battles: emails, phone calls, crises. Breakfast, if it happened, was standing up, half-distracted, fueled by urgency.
But here I was, across from Krystal Hunter, in her immaculate kitchen, eating bacon and eggs like a man who had nothing to run to.
And damn it, it felt good.
“Careful,” she teased as I reached for a second helping of eggs. “Keep eating like this, you’ll get used to it. Then what? Am I supposed to start a tradition?”
I met her eyes, letting the corner of my mouth tilt up. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind that.”
She froze just briefly, just long enough for me to notice, before recovering with that infuriatingly smooth smile. “Don’t get attached, Johnson. Breakfast is just breakfast.”
Maybe it was. But as I sipped the last of that perfect coffee, one thing gnawed at me.
She knew me. Too well.
And the part that scared me most?
I wanted her to.