Chapter 15 15
Krystal’s POV
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I laid there, sprawled across satin sheets in my tiny apartment that now felt like a royal war room, the soft hum of my brand-new MacBook Pro glowing in front of me like a portal to destiny. My fingers tapped slow, steady—each keystroke a promise.
I wasn’t going to barge in screaming.
No. Revenge isn’t supposed to be fast. It’s supposed to be slow. Patient. Exquisite. Like aging fine wine or simmering bone broth—it gets better the longer it cooks.
I clicked open my browser. Search: IT experts. Underground. Manhattan. Hackers. Tracers. Social engineering. Cleaners.
It was a rabbit hole of sketchy forums and digital shadows. Too obvious. Too risky. Then something clicked in my head, like fate tapping me on the shoulder with a manicured finger.
Venice’s ex.
Tomas De Nero.
Mediocre face. Great at coding. Even better at being bitter.
I remembered him. He was obsessed with Venice. Like, built-her-a-website-and-named-it-after-her-cat obsessed. Then she dumped him for some actor-slash-douchebag and ghosted him mid-rent.
He’d ranted about it on Facebook once. A two-paragraph poetic meltdown under a photo of spaghetti.
Perfect.
I logged into my old, dusty Facebook account. The one I used when my only friend was a ramen cup and a school library computer.
I searched him.
Tomas De Nero: Web Developer | Freelance Security Consultant | “Don’t Cross Me”
Oh, sweet karma.
His DMs were open.
I typed:
Hey Tomas. Long time no talk. I think we have a mutual enemy… and I have a very interesting offer.
I hit send.
Then waited.
Didn’t even take five minutes.
Tomas:
“Krystal Mclaren?? Is this for real?”
“Venice’s sister?”
“Do you know what she did to me???”
I smiled slowly, sipping wine like it was a spell I was casting.
Yes. I know everything. Let’s talk in person. Tomorrow?
Tomas:
“Name the time. I’ll bring screenshots.”
God, I love when bitter men with skills are freshly dumped and emotionally available for revenge.
As I closed my laptop, the city buzzed outside, clueless.
The McLarens thought they’d seen the last of me.
But what they didn’t know?
The real Hunter doesn’t bark. She stalks.
And tomorrow?
I’d be loading my arrows.
With a coder at my side and a vendetta in my veins.
Let the slow burn begin.
Tomas De Nero.
He used to be Venice’s little tech puppet. Her lapdog. Her project. Her "I’m-dating-a-smart-guy-for-extra-credit" accessory.
I remembered the way he used to show up to our house—always early, always carrying a USB stick and flowers.
Always trying too hard.
He thought she loved him.
She didn’t.
She loved the way he worshipped her.
She loved the way he did her coding homework, edited her selfies, and made her look smarter on social media.
He got a tattoo of her name. Venice, etched in cursive on his right bicep, wrapped in a rose. It looked more like a teenage garage band logo than romance, but the boy meant it.
Poor guy thought he was Romeo.
She just needed a plus-one for prom.
And then?
Prom night. The lights. The DJ. The whole school watching.
She stood on that stage in her rhinestone heels, microphone in hand, and said:
“I’d like to thank Tomas for helping me get through high school… but I’m here with my real boyfriend now.”
And just like that, she kissed some other guy—Greg or Grayson or whatever gym-tanned idiot she had lined up—and walked off with Tomas still standing there. Alone. In a rented tux.
I heard he didn’t even cry.
He just walked off stage, went home, and started writing code like it was therapy.
The next day
We met in a shady, overpriced coffee shop tucked between a yoga studio and a vape bar.
He was already there, hunched over a latte like it had done something personal to him. Still looked nerdy. Shaggy brown hair. Too pale. But his jawline was sharper than I remembered.
The tattoo? Still there.
But slightly faded.
A ghost of bad decisions.
“Krystal,” he said when I sat down. “I almost didn’t believe it was you.”
“I get that a lot lately.”
He looked me over. Not in the sleazy way, but like he was mentally calculating why I was glowing up like a deleted scene from Pretty Woman.
“So. What’s this about mutual enemies?” he asked, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.
I smiled.
“McLarens.”
He flinched at the first name. Snorted at the last.
I continued, “I’m back from the dead. Literally. And I have more money than their egos combined. But I need help with information. Accounts. Digital skeletons. Secrets. Hidden dirt.”
He studied me. “You’re serious.”
“I’m ten-million-dollars serious.”
His jaw dropped.
I slid a brand-new dime across the table. “That’s your retainer.”
He laughed. Laughed so hard he choked on his latte.
“Oh, Krystal,” he said, eyes shining now with something new. “I think this is the start of something dangerously beautiful.” I crossed my legs, one perfectly polished shoe tapping the floor of the coffee shop like a metronome of danger.
Tomas sat across from me, blinking at the one dollar bill I’d slid across the table like it was a declaration of war.
“One dollar?” he repeated, voice cracking like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or propose.
I sipped my triple-shot espresso with oat milk like a queen who’d already bought the throne.
“Yes, Tomas. One dollar. And before you scoff, that’s like giving you a damn luxury yacht and naming it after your childhood trauma. I will give you more if you don't ask.”
His eyes bulged like he’d seen God in a Dior blazer. “Krystal,” he whispered, cradling the bill like it had healing powers, “I will crack open that company like it’s a rotting avocado.”
“Good. I want dirt. Skeletons. Receipts. Fraud. Tax evasion. Any nasty little secrets hidden under McLaren Cigar Inc.’s crusty rug of pride.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice to a razor-sharp whisper.
“I don’t want rumors. I want things that would make the IRS scream, bankers panic, and their precious country club revoke membership.”
He nodded feverishly. “Give me 48 hours.”
“You’ve got 24.” I stood up, pulled on my oversized sunglasses, and gave him a grin that said: Welcome to the dark side. We have receipts.
And then? I went to the salon. Because revenge waits for no one—but beauty prep is sacred.