Chapter 17 17
The next day, I walked into the bank like I owned the Federal Reserve—because at this point, I probably could if I felt like it.
This time, the moment I entered, the receptionist stood.
Not sat. Not waved. Stood. Like I was royalty returning from exile.
“Miss Hunter,” she greeted with the kind of reverence usually reserved for popes and pop divas. “We’ve already informed Mr. Alwin Jr. that you’ve arrived.”
She didn’t even offer me coffee.
She offered me sparkling water infused with rose petals.
“This isn’t just service,” I murmured. “This is a soft monarchy.”
I was escorted—heels clicking with power—back into that massive oak-and-glass office where Mr. Alwin Jr. looked like he hadn’t slept since my last visit. Probably still haunted by my sass and the economic equivalent of a divine slap.
He stood when I walked in.
“Miss Hunter! It’s an honor, again.”
“Of course it is,” I replied smoothly, sliding into the leather seat like I was about to negotiate world peace—or demand a handbag.
“What can I do for you today?” he asked, nervously adjusting his tie.
“I’m here to withdraw twenty dollars,” I said, crossing my legs. “Again, just twenty.”
He blinked.
Then choked.
Literally choked.
“T-Twenty? As in... twenty dollars?!”
“Do you need me to spell it out?” I tilted my head. “T-W-E-N-T-Y.”
He scrambled. “That’s—Miss Hunter, that’s an extremely large transaction to process in one day.”
“Is it?” I fake-gasped. “Because a few days ago you made me feel like ten was a private jet and a corporate merger.”
“It is,” he whispered like the walls had ears. “Miss Hunter, twenty dollars could crash our liquidity flow in a day if not cleared through at least three departments. We’d have to call in two treasury officers.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Mr. Alwin Jr., are you telling me I’m too rich for your bank?”
His pupils dilated like he just realized the queen of petty revenge was threatening to pull a Beyoncé and start her own bank.
“N-no! I’ll make it work. It’ll just... take a moment.”
“I have a hair appointment in an hour,” I lied. “And a date with Hermes. I expect results.”
Fifteen minutes, one fingerprint scan, a signature, two countersigned ledgers, and what looked like a security team whispering in panic, I finally received my twenty-dollar bill—fresh, crisp, sheathed in velvet, for God’s sake.
“And please,” Mr. Alwin added with trembling hands, “accept this as gratitude from the bank.” He handed me a black envelope with some exclusive Platinum VIP shopping perks inside.
I slipped him one dollar as a tip.
Just one.
He gasped like I’d baptized his firstborn in gold.
“T-thank you, Miss Hunter. You’re... incredible.”
“I know,” I replied, standing. “And I’m just getting started.”
I walked out with my twenty-dollar treasure and the smug grace of a woman who just made capitalism blush.
Shopping spree?
Activated.
Let’s be honest here.
Did I need twenty dollars in my wallet?
Not really. But I needed the illusion of normalcy. You know, like the common folks—the mortals—carrying petty cash in a foldable wallet and pulling out a wrinkled bill to pay for coffee instead of casually swiping a black card that could buy a skyscraper.
Yesterday, I tried using the ATM, thinking I’d casually grab some cash for “just-in-case” expenses.
Plot twist?
The daily withdrawal limit was ONE DOLLAR.
A freaking dollar.
“What am I? Twelve trying to buy candy from 7-Eleven?”
And so, today’s whole bank drama? Purely to get some emergency cash. Just a couple of dollars in my purse so I don’t have to keep looking like I stepped off a money-laced spaceship every time I want to pay for bubble tea.
Anyway, now that I had that holy $20 folded neatly in my purse like a magic relic…
Time to splurge.
And by splurge, I don’t mean another pair of shoes. No, sweetie. I meant wheels.
I called a cab and headed straight to the luxury car dealership, strutting in like I had oil wells in my eyelashes. The glass doors parted for me as if they recognized royalty.
Inside, the floors gleamed, the showroom smelled like leather and testosterone, and the cars?
Oh, the cars.
Lined up like runway models at Paris Fashion Week. Lamborghinis. Bentleys. A Rolls-Royce Phantom that practically whispered “revenge.”
A slick salesman in a tight navy suit spotted me and came over, clearly about to underestimate me.
“Ma’am, are you here for someone?”
“No,” I said, flipping my hair. “I’m here for something. Preferably in midnight black. And I’ll need a driver. I don’t have a license yet.”
He blinked. “Oh. That’s...fine. We offer luxury chauffeurs for purchase clients.”
“Perfect. Because darling,” I smiled sweetly, “if I drove one of these babies, I’d end up on the news. Either for crashing into a hedge or running over my ex.”
He nervously chuckled. “And your budget, ma’am?”
I slid my black card onto the glass counter like I was throwing down a gauntlet.
“No budget. Just taste.”
His jaw?
On. The. Floor.
Two hours later, I walked out with:
✔ A custom matte-black Bentley Continental GT
✔ An on-call professional driver named Julian with cheekbones you could cut diamonds on
✔ Complimentary champagne
✔ And the lingering memory of watching Illana (Ivy’s fake designer sidekick) walk past the dealership, staring through the window like I was the Mona Lisa riding a miracle.
Was it petty?
Yes.
Did I care?
Absolutely not.
On my way back home, Julian adjusted the mirror and asked, “Anywhere else, ma’am?”
I sipped the champagne in the backseat, glancing at my reflection in my new Givenchy sunglasses.
“Just drive around Manhattan. Let the world see what regret looks like in heels.”
Because Krystal Hunter was no longer just surviving.
She was thriving. Rebranded. Rebirthed.
And ready to dismantle the McLarens with style, grace, and a monthly skincare subscription worth more than their dignity.
While lounging in the back of my brand-new matte-black Bentley, leather seats cocooning me like royalty on a revenge tour, I stared out the tinted window and thought about Illana.
Neon-haired. Loud-mouthed.
myWears Gucci spelled wrong and thinks “Fendi” is a personality trait.
But let’s be honest—naïve and desperate is exactly the combo I needed right now.
I needed a spy. A mole. A clueless little firecracker who could smile, giggle, and leak McLaren gossip like a faulty faucet.
And Illana? She wasn’t just qualified—she was practically begging for a luxury leash.
I pulled out my old phone—yes, the poor little Nokia survivor with cracked edges and trauma in its pixels. Swapped in the dusty SIM card I’d buried in a drawer of old receipts and rejection letters.
Scrolled.
There she was. Illana - Ivy’s TrollFriend 💅🏼
I smirked and pressed “Call.”
“Hello?” Her voice shrieked through the speaker like she'd been drinking battery acid and bad gossip.
“It’s Krystal. We need to talk. Meet me at Caffé Noire in thirty minutes. I’ll give you something better than fake YSL—a dime a day.”
She gasped. “A—what?!”
“Be there. Or go back to stealing Ivy’s knockoffs.”
Then I hung up.
Dramatically. Like all power moves should end.