Chapter 18 18
Thirty minutes later
We pulled up in front of Caffé Noire—a monument of caffeine and capitalism nestled in the upper district of Manhattan.
The kind of place where:
The coffee comes with edible gold flakes,
Everyone pretends to write novels on MacBooks,
And if your espresso isn’t hand-poured by a Colombian barista named Mateo, it’s considered offensive.
Outside, Illana stood there—gawking.
Literal jaw-drop.
Neon hair clashing wildly with the rose-gold accents of the coffee shop window.
When the Bentley’s suicide doors opened, Julian (my new driver/Greek god lookalike) stepped out to open mine.
I emerged.
In Givenchy, diamond-studded flats, oversized sunglasses, and that one perfect smirk that says “Yes, I’m better than you, and no, I won’t apologize.”
Illana gasped so hard, her knockoff Balenciaga tote hit the pavement.
“K-Krystal?! That’s your car?!”
“Hmm?” I slid my sunglasses down slightly. “Oh, you mean one of them?”
She nearly choked.
Inside Caffé Noire, the air was scented with Madagascar vanilla and overachievers. People were typing on MacBook Pros, drinking espresso out of double-walled crystal cups, pretending to be authors, startup CEOs, or tortured philosophers.
The chandeliers sparkled. The baristas wore silk aprons. The coffee? Started at half a cent and came with emotional damage.
We sat at a corner velvet booth near the window. I snapped my fingers once—Mateo, my favorite barista, appeared instantly.
“Miss Hunter,” he said with reverence. “Your usual?”
“Yes, Mateo. Add a gold-foamed cappuccino for my guest here. She’s new to quality.”
Illana blinked. “I—is that real gold?”
“Yes,” I said smoothly, sipping. “Don’t worry, it’s digestible. Like shame. You’ll get used to it.”
She took a careful sip and moaned dramatically like she was tasting wealth for the first time.
“So, Illana,” I said, folding my hands on the marble table. “How would you like to earn a dime a day?”
“I’d sell my ex for a dime right now,” she blurted.
“Good. Because I don’t need your ex. I need your ears. Your eyes. Your gossip addiction.”
“I’m listening…”
“You’re going to go back to Ivy. Be her bestie. Her cheerleader. Her ‘ride-or-die.’ But everything she says, everything she wears, everyone she texts—I want a report.”
She gasped. “Like...a spy?”
“No, darling. A fashionable informant. Think of it as your audition for luxury life. One dime a day. One Dior lip gloss per milestone.”
She stared down at her cup, eyes wide, shimmering with dreams and caffeine.
“Deal,” she whispered.
“Fabulous.” I slid a shiny dime across the table. “Welcome to the Hunter Regime.”
And just like that, Illana the Neon Spy was hired with three dimes advance payment because why not? She was desperate for cash.
Illana’s POV
If someone told me a week ago that Krystal McLaren—yes, that Krystal, the one Ivy called “hand-me-down Barbie” behind her back—would be the one dripping in designer, riding in a Bentley, and handing out dimes like Willy Wonka with golden tickets, I would’ve choked on my off-brand latte.
But here we are.
And honey, I’m not stupid.
Ivy? Yeah, we were friends. Well… kinda.
Fake friends. Designer-wrapped toxicity.
She liked me around because I had a car and knew how to laugh at her jokes. But the moment my family’s bakery went bankrupt, she treated me like spoiled milk.
“You're poor now,” she’d say with that stupid nasal laugh. “Just wear my old stuff. It’s vintage.”
No, witch. It was stained and smelled like expired privilege.
My dad works two jobs now. My mom’s got arthritis and can’t even afford the brand-name meds. We live in a two-bedroom apartment above a noisy karaoke bar. I waitress on weekends, tutor freshmen, and I’m still struggling to pay for final exams.
So when Krystal messaged me for coffee at Caffé Noire, I thought it was a setup.
Until I saw her roll in like she owned time itself—in Givenchy. Diamond earrings. Custom iPhone. And that aura.
Bitch had a black card. A real one.
I wanted to weep.
Or rob her.
Or beg her to adopt me.
Instead, she sat me down with a cappuccino that probably cost more than my shoes and said:
“One dime a day. You spy on Ivy, you feed me the dirt, and you get paid. Think of it as loyalty with a sparkle.”
I stared at her. A dime? Like a literal dime?
She smirked.
Then slid one across the marble like it was laced with destiny.
“This dime,” she whispered, “could get you out of your sad little life and into something... shinier.”
I looked at it.
It gleamed.
My soul did a pirouette.
“Deal.”
But I wasn’t finished. I needed to shoot my shot.
“Uh... can I have three dimes in advance?” I said sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. “My mom needs her meds and—”
She raised a single perfect brow.
I braced myself.
She reached into her velvet purse and dropped three shimmering dimes in my palm like she was tossing breadcrumbs to a starving swan.
“Don’t make me regret that,” she said.
“You won’t,” I whispered, cradling those dimes like they were newborn puppies.
That moment, I made a vow.
Ivy? Dead to me.
Krystal? My new goddess.
Spy work? Activated.
If Ivy thought she was the queen of fake luxury, wait until she gets dethroned by a dime-sponsored double agent in neon hair.
This is war.
And baby, I’ve picked my side.
Krystal POV
After hiring Illana the Neon Spy and sipping literal gold at Caffé Noire, I decided it was time to stop playing rich and start living like the goddess of vengeance and luxury I now was.
Because, darling…
What’s revenge without a penthouse?
And not just any penthouse. No.
I wanted the crown jewel of Manhattan. The one that made real estate agents sweat and billionaires weep.
So, what did I do?
I googled:
“Most expensive penthouse in Manhattan.”
And there it was—the triplex at Central Park Tower.
A sky palace. A literal glass throne in the clouds.
Previously, I mean, before my death and the so-called galactic miracle it was listed for a humble $195 million.
Now?
$20,000.
Twenty. Thousand. Freaking. Dollars.
I cackled. In my old dusty living room.
Spilled sparkling water on my Givenchy robe and scared my neighbor’s cat through the wall.
“Oh, sweet inflation-induced fantasy world,” I whispered to the air. “Mama’s about to move up.”
Three hours later, after yet another heart full breakfast from Tita Maribel apartment and a 1$ bill surprise gift for her grandkids later.
The Viewing
I arrived at Central Park Tower in my matte-black Bentley with a very serious looking driver, wearing a custom cream-colored pantsuit from Celine and an LV pumps that could puncture egos.
Julian, my personal driver, opened the door as I stepped out like I was filming a Vogue ad.
The building?
Iconic.
All glass and steel and “if you have to ask the price, you don’t belong here” energy.
The doormen wore tuxedos.
The air smelled like money and imported mahogany.
Inside, I was greeted by Lance, the real estate agent—a six-foot-three brunette with a Rolex that probably ticked in four languages.
“Miss Hunter,” he said, adjusting his navy velvet blazer. “Welcome. We’re so honored to show you this listing.”
“Of course you are, darling. Lead the way.”