Chapter 20 20
Few weeks later, I did what most people in their wildest fever dreams wouldn’t even dare whisper out loud—
I bought the entire freaking Central Park Tower.
Yes. That tower. The one that kisses the clouds and makes millionaires feel like peasants. With Darren, my dangerously handsome lawyer, Lance the jawline-blessed real estate prince, and a few “corporate friends” introduced to me by my beloved bank manager, Mr. Alwin Jr. (who now bows when I enter the bank), the paperwork was signed, sealed, and delivered faster than a tax write-off.
They looked at me like I had descended from some billionaire heaven with a gold-embossed checkbook and divine judgment. I saw one of them tear up. Probably thinking about his student loans and how I just bought a skyscraper with what amounted to three hundred thousand bucks.
They started calling me Lady K.
I didn’t stop them. Why would I?
My black card now had its own seat at every meeting. Darren had one rule: If Krystal wants it, it’s happening. Even Lance started wearing better suits. Tighter ones. I didn’t complain.
Now?
Julian was my full-time personal driver.
Six-foot-two. Former marine. Voice deep enough to stir your soul and arms thick enough to carry all my Hermes bags.
Every morning, my Rolls-Royce Droptail La Rose Noire purred outside the tower like royalty waiting to be chauffeured. She was mine. Sleek, custom matte finish, with red-leather interior and speakers that only played Beyoncé when I was feeling vengeful. Which, let’s be honest, was most days.
Meanwhile, Tita Maribel—my angel, my savior, my pancit queen—was now sipping calamansi juice on the balcony of her own luxurious fifth-floor penthouse with heated tiles and a kitchen Gordon Ramsay would sell a kidney for.
She refused the Bentley.
Said it was “too much.”
So I gave her a brand-new luxury SUV with heated seats, karaoke sound system, and a trunk big enough to fit all the groceries and dignity she deserved.
And this time?
We’re still neighbors.
Only now I own the building.
No landlord would ever knock on her door again.
No rent overdue notices.
No noise complaints from neighbors who don’t understand karaoke passion.
Just peace, comfort, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made her feel like she was floating above the very world that once tried to drown us both.
Illana, my unintentional spy with neon hair and a mouth that ran faster than Wi-Fi, kept me posted like she was paid in pure gossip (and, well, dimes).
“Ivy and Era are fighting over a fake Hermès Birkin,” she said last night with popcorn in her hand and Chanel flats on her feet.
“Apparently, Ivy’s swearing hers is real because she found it in some ‘limited edition Paris trunk sale’…but Era scanned the barcode and it redirected to a cat litter website.”
Delicious.
“Also, Norma is threatening to melt Elias’s Rolex with her curling iron if he maxes out one more credit card. He apparently tried to buy a new yacht…on a credit card.”
Oh, darling, they’re scrambling.
The family that used to trap me in closets, mock my ramen dinners, and slap me over things they’d done?
Now fighting over fake bags and overdraft fees.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my 5 cent martini glass.
Poetic. Freaking. Justice.
And this was only the soft opening.
I hadn’t even touched the real revenge menu yet.
But I will. When the timing’s right.
🖋️ Darren Johnson’s POV
Location: Executive Boardroom, Central Park Tower | Manhattan
I should’ve been used to power plays.
I come from a long line of lawyers—my grandfather was a federal judge, my mother a legal scholar before she got sick, and my father… well, he was a walking cautionary tale about trust and casino chips.
And then there’s me. Darren Johnson. Harvard-educated. Top of my class. The youngest partner in my firm. The one who never had time for failure—or feelings.
But then came Krystal Hunter.
And suddenly, power had a face. Lipsticked. Calm. Beautiful. Dangerous.
She sat at the head of the 40th-floor executive boardroom overlooking Manhattan like she already owned it—which, by the end of this meeting, she would.
Her Givenchy suit matched the glint in her eyes, and the black card sitting on the table was just a prop for her true weapon: confidence that snapped like champagne corks.
Across from her sat Lance, the high-strung real estate agent with perfect hair and nerves of cotton candy. He tried his best not to sweat through his luxury blazer.
The executives of Summit Estates Holdings, the corporation that technically owned Central Park Tower, were squirming in their seats like it was a hostage negotiation. They’d held out for days—refusing to budge despite their tanking shares, rising interest rates, and quiet whispers of bankruptcy.
But when Krystal came in with a $300,000 all-cash offer—they had no choice. She’d bought their silence, their equity, and their pride.
“So,” she said, resting her chin on her hand, “Do we have a deal, gentlemen?”
The chairman, a man who once rejected her call two days ago, now looked like he was trying not to faint.
“Y-Yes, Ms. Hunter. We’ve finalized the papers. We, uh, appreciate your generous… efficiency.”
Efficiency. That’s what they were calling it now.
I slid the final documents across the table and handed her the gold Montblanc pen. She didn’t hesitate. She signed like she was writing a love letter to karma.
I glanced at her while she wasn’t looking.
God, she was lethal. And brilliant. And frustrating.
And I needed this win.
Because no one in this room knew that the “youngest Johnson lawyer” came from a crumbling house on the outskirts of Boston, with a mother hooked up to dialysis and a father who once bet our mortgage on a horse named “Whiskey Pie.”
The $10 she paid me today—in this economy—was a fortune. Just a tip. A thank you.
It was a lifeline.
It would cover my mother’s entire monthly medication. Plus rent.
And when she slid $2 to Lance—as a tip—he nearly wept like he’d seen God.
“You may go now,” she said casually to the executives, “unless you’d like to stay for cupcakes and the sound of your company being officially removed from the property registry.”
Sass. Grace. Venom.
I didn’t know whether to admire her… or fear her.
Probably both.
After everyone left, she turned to me and crossed her legs—slowly. The confidence, the elegance—it made your spine straighten.
“Darren, make sure everything’s processed. I want the parking lot renamed. And tell the security I want black marble installed at the front lobby. Oh—and a dress code for visitors. I’m tired of people wearing wrinkled linen like it’s still the Great Depression.”
She stood up.
And when she passed by, she brushed her fingertips along my arm. Not flirtatious. Not cold. Just enough to remind me:
She wasn’t a client. She was a revolution.
“You’re doing well, Darren,” she said, pausing at the door.
“Don’t disappoint me.”
She left the boardroom with her Givenchy coat fluttering behind her like the wings of an expensive vengeance angel.
And me?
I stood there for a full minute, pulse high, jaw locked, wondering whether I was helping build her empire…
Or standing in the path of her fire.
By the time I returned to my office, the weight of the Central Park Tower deal was still thrumming in my chest like an aftershock. I’d emailed the scanned contracts, forwarded receipts, and confirmed title transfers with the city. Everything was legally hers now.
Central Park Tower was no longer just a luxury building.
It was Krystal Hunter’s castle.
I loosened my tie, grabbed a bottle of water, and had barely taken one sip before my assistant poked her head in.
“Uh, Mr. Johnson… Ms. Hunter is here.”
I blinked. “Krystal?”
“Yeah. She’s holding a black umbrella that looks like it costs more than my rent. She says she needs to discuss something… privately.”
Five seconds later, she walked into my office like she already owned it. (She did own the building next door, so what was stopping her?)
She wore a deep emerald silk dress, high slit on the side, blazer over her shoulders like a cape. She looked like old money had lunch with war and produced her.
“Paperwork looks good,” she said, casually setting her phone on my desk. “Impressive turnaround, counselor.”
“Thank you,” I said, standing.
“Now,” she continued, crossing one leg over the other as she took the seat opposite me. “Would you care to join me for lunch? I have… plans to discuss. The kind that pair well with risotto and secrets.”
I knew better than to decline.