Chapter 13 13
After the pastry crumbs were cleared and Elsa hugged me like I’d just paid off her reincarnation taxes, I took the next step in my grand comeback plan:
Money moves.
And not the shopping kind.
I needed to be smart. Strategic. I needed to know how to make my fortune work for me.
So, with Elsa’s recommendation and a borrowed umbrella (old habits die hard), I made my way to the Financial District of Manhattan—where the air smelled like espresso, anxiety, and stock market ambition.
She didn’t ask too many questions when I mentioned “inheritance money.” I lied, of course, but in my defense, it wasn’t a full lie. I did technically inherit it… from my own resurrection and a little divine intervention.
“Go see Henry Blakemore,” she had said. “British. Knows money like Gordon Ramsay knows swearing.”
Sold.
His office was in a high-rise tower with floor-to-ceiling glass and chairs too modern to be comfortable. The receptionist looked like she moonlighted as a Vogue cover model. I was shown in after a ten-minute wait.
And there he was.
Henry Blakemore.
British. Mid-thirties. Tall. Slim. Perfectly tailored navy suit that probably cost the same as my old rent. Sandy brown hair. Eyes like early morning fog—and oh God, that accent.
“Miss McLaren?” he asked, standing with a charming half-smile.
I swallowed the sass rising in my throat. “Technically. But soon to be Hunter.”
“Very well,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from his. “Let’s talk about what your... inheritance is doing while you’re not watching.”
We talked investments.
Real estate. Hospitality. Tech startups. Luxury goods. Stocks. Bonds. ETFs. He laid it all out like a buffet of future power.
He scribbled notes on a legal pad while flipping through screens.
“Now, with that kind of capital,” he said smoothly, “I’d strongly recommend diversifying. We’re looking at high-yield real estate, particularly hospitality—the post-inflation boom has created a seller’s market. Small boutique hotels, especially around tourist zones, are ripe for flipping.”
“Tech, of course, is always worth dipping a toe into—AI, green energy, smart agriculture.”
“And stocks—here’s a list of stable companies with a strong ten-year outlook. Some of them survived the crash better than the banks.”
He slid a list toward me—names I’d only seen on billboards and airport terminals. I scanned them like I actually knew what EBITDA meant.
Then he looked up.
“How much are you working with, if I may?”
I smiled and said simply, “Enough to be taken seriously.”
His eyes twinkled. “That’s my favorite kind of client.”
He handed me a sleek folder with investment options, color-coded by risk level, and even included a startup incubator for socially conscious luxury brands.
I loved that one.
As Henry rattled off more company names than a Forbes billionaire roundup, I leaned forward, calm and confident.
“I’ll start with ten thousand dollars, split across the companies you recommended.”
He froze mid-sentence. Blinked. Then blinked again.
“…I—I’m sorry, did you say… ten thousand?”
I nodded, completely unbothered. “Yes. Ten thousand dollars.”
His chair creaked as he leaned back slowly like his brain needed time to reboot.
Then—he laughed. A soft, stunned laugh. “Well. That’s certainly... more than I expected you to commit upfront. It’s actually... extraordinary.”
He stood up so fast I thought he’d launch himself across the desk. “Miss McLaren—Miss Hunter—I’ll have the investment documents drafted immediately. Immediately. I’ll prep all the legal paperwork, portfolio allocations, preferred risk brackets, insurance protections, and corporate proxy options for voting rights. And we’ll schedule a signing meeting, of course—contract and ID verification, the works.”
You’d think I’d just pledged to buy out the country.
Which—given this insane economy—I basically did.
I tilted my head. “That’s all for just ten thousand dollars?”
He straightened his tie nervously. “Miss… that kind of capital can launch a hostile takeover in three industries right now. Ten thousand dollars today has the liquidity power of… well, let’s just say it’s a highly aggressive entry point. I’ll prepare high-level projections for ROI. You’ll be able to choose from at least eight positions on the board of directors.”
“Lovely,” I said, sliding my sunglasses back on like a villain in a soap opera. “Make it clean. Make it fast. I like my business like my espresso—no foam, no nonsense.”
Henry practically bowed. “Understood. I’ll be in touch by tomorrow with the finalized contracts. You’ve just made a very powerful move.”
I flashed him a small smile. “Oh, Henry... I’m just getting started.”
He smiled.
Then I cleared my throat. “Henry… do you know a lawyer who can help me legally change my surname?”
That caught him off guard, just slightly. “Tired of McLaren already?”
“I was tired of it before I could spell it.”
He chuckled. “I do, actually. Friend of mine from Harvard. Smart. Discreet. A bit of a bulldog in court, if you don’t mind that.”
“Perfect. I like my lawyers like I like my revenge—precise and terrifying.”
“His name is Darren Johnson. I’ll text him now. You’ll like him. He charges more than the average hitman, but he delivers.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
As I left his glass office with the reflection of Wall Street’s steel towers gleaming behind me, my heels clicked like gunshots on marble.
I had just invested the equivalent of a nation’s GDP… with ten thousand-dollar.
The next day, my phone buzzed just as I finished smearing blood-red lipstick across my smirking mouth.
Henry: “Darren Johnson is expecting you at 11 AM. Suite 28, Kingsley Building. He’s... intense. Don’t be late.”
Perfect. I was dressed to intimidate:
Prada Black turtleneck. High-waisted slacks. My hair in a low ponytail sharp enough to slice my past.
And heels—lethal ones.
The Kingsley Building stood tall and arrogant, like it knew the weight of the contracts signed within its steel bones. Inside, it smelled of polished ambition and overpaid legal advice.
The elevator opened to Suite 28.
And then I saw him.
Darren. Freaking. Johnson.
God may have been petty when I died, but He certainly got generous when He sent this man into my life.
He stood near the window, backlit by sunlight, reading over a document. His navy blue button-down clung to a body that was definitely not built in law school. Broad shoulders. Rolled-up sleeves showing off tan forearms. His jawline could slice cheese. And his eyes—green like fresh money.
He looked up.
And when those eyes landed on me, I swear the oxygen in the room went on strike.
“You must be Miss McLaren,” he said, voice low, deep, smooth. Legal honey.
“I prefer Miss Hunter now,” I replied, striding in like I wasn’t melting inside.
He arched a brow. “Ah. You’re here to make it official.”
“Yes,” I said, dropping into the chair like a queen at her throne. “Time to bury the name that buried me.”
He smirked as he sat across from me. “I read your case notes. Changing your surname is simple enough. I can handle it in under a week. You just need to sign, verify identity, and tell me how dramatic you want the courtroom exit to be.”
“I want fireworks,” I said. “Metaphorical. Unless you have real ones.”
He chuckled. “I like your style.”
He pulled out the paperwork, flipping through pages with practiced ease.
“Do you have a new surname in mind?”
“Hunter.”
And the best part?
I still had six dollar in my purse. The change from the ten dollars I withdrew yesterday.