Chapter 12 12
The next morning, I woke up with one thing on my mind.
Vengeance? No, not yet.
A spa day? Tempting.
But no—this was personal.
I sat up in bed, my hair a glorious mess, and smiled to myself like a woman who had finally solved the riddle of the universe.
“It’s time to pay off that soul-sucking, dignity-destroying, two-year culinary school debt.”
Two years ago, I took an Associate’s Degree in Culinary Arts, busting my butt in kitchens, scraping together tips, and praying my student loans wouldn’t haunt me until the grave.
The debt?
$40,000.
But now?
Four. Freaking. Dollars.
I grinned, teeth and all. “I’m gonna pay this like a queen buying mints at a gas station.”
So I got dressed—my new Dior jeans, oversized Prada dark hoodie, Chanel runners, hair in a lazy bun (don’t judge me, it was a statement)—and walked into the administration building of my former college like I owned it. Because, financially speaking? I kinda did.
The staff at the front desk barely looked up. I cleared my throat.
“Hi. I’d like to pay off my student debt. In full.”
The woman gave me the patented ‘oh-honey-you-sure?’ look. “You’re referring to… your Culinary Associate loan?”
“Yup,” I said, popping the $10 in crisp bills onto the counter like it was gold.
She blinked. “Is this… a joke?”
“Nope,” I beamed. “It’s called inflation. Or magic. Or karma. Pick your favorite.”
By the time I walked out with my receipt and zero balance, I was floating. And still with 6$ bills left plus those amazing dimes and pennies on my wallet.
But I wasn’t done.
I wandered into the student lounge and bumped into an old classmate—Elsa Kang. Half-Korean, half-American, full sass. Always had her hair in a perfect braid and her sarcasm sharper than her knives during kitchen demos.
She did a double take when she saw me.
“Krystal? Girl—you’re alive? I thought you disappeared into a ramen bowl and never came back.”
I laughed. “Not dead. Just dramatically reborn.”
She looked me up and down, eyes narrowing. “You look… suspiciously relaxed. Like a girl who paid her loans.”
I winked. “Wanna get coffee? My treat.”
She gasped. “Wait. You’re paying? Are we talking vending machine coffee or like… a real café?”
“Fancy,” I said, already dragging her toward the nearest bougie coffee shop. “No styrofoam cups in sight.”
Ten minutes later.
At “CAFFÈ ÉTOILE”, a café so pretentious it served lattes in wine glasses and charged for Wi-Fi, we took a seat under a chandelier that probably cost more than my old apartment.
The barista came over and gave us that broke-student side-eye, but I calmly handed over three shiny pennies.
Elsa's eyes widened. “Krystal… tell me you didn’t rob a museum.”
“Nope,” I said, sipping my oat milk lavender espresso. “I just found a bunch of pennies.”
“What the…”
I nodded, slow and smug.
Her jaw dropped. “So… we can order whatever?!”
“Girl, treat it like it’s your last day on Earth.”
We went wild.
Croissants with edible gold. Strawberry matcha foam clouds. Artisanal donuts with names like “Existential Glaze.”
Elsa moaned into a tiramisu. “I love you. Marry me.”
“Hold that thought,” I said, reaching into my bag. “I got you something.”
I handed her a Chanel purse—soft beige, quilted leather, silver chain, the kind of purse that whispered ‘your ex will regret everything.’
Her eyes bugged. “Is this real?”
“Of course not,” I said, deadpan. “It’s made of recycled dreams and bad decisions.”
She stared.
Then I burst out laughing and added, “Okay, fine. It’s real. You deserve it. You’ve always been real.” I looked at Elsa as she cradled the Chanel purse like it held her future husband and a map to Bora Bora.
And I remembered. Oh, I remembered.
This wasn’t just some lucky girl I ran into at random.
She was the only one—
The only one who treated me like a human back when I was invisible.
There was that rainy afternoon in the library, when I was doing my part-time shift, exhausted, broke, and cramming for finals. I didn’t even have money for vending machine coffee. She walked past me, paused, and without a word… slid over an instant coffee mix packet.
“Sugar’s already inside,” she had whispered, like she was handing me gold.
She didn’t laugh when I couldn’t afford lunch.
She didn’t gossip when I wore the same hoodie three days in a row.
She gave me ramen one night after class when my stomach was so loud it echoed in the hallway. And once? When my only umbrella snapped in half, and I was walking in the rain like a soaked sock puppet, she handed me hers.
“I’m half-Korean, babe. We don’t let people drown over umbrellas.”
I never forgot it. I never could.
And now?
Now that I had wealth dripping from my pockets and power curled around my name like a crown—she was still the same.
Kind. Sarcastic. Honest.
The type of friend who didn’t ask for anything, which made me want to give her everything.
So I smiled and raised my diamond-dusted espresso like a toast.
“To the girl who fed me ramen and saved me from pneumonia with a polka dot umbrella,” I said.
Elsa blinked, then smiled—shy, almost tearful.
“Okay, stop. I’m already crying and I’m wearing mascara.”
“Cry rich, babe. It looks better in Chanel.”
And just like that, we laughed again, sipping espresso and eating overpriced desserts like two girls who’d survived the storm—and now, were dancing in the floodlights.
She clutched the purse like it was a newborn. “I feel like a villain in a K-drama.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s be rich, beautiful, and slightly morally ambiguous together.”
And as we toasted our third round of coffee with our pinkies up like unhinged heiresses, I realized—
This?
This was healing.
Coffee, friendship, and overpriced sugar.
All paid in dimes and destiny.
And baby, I was just getting started.