Chapter 22 22
Darren POV
Restaurant: La Couronne Noire
Manhattan’s most exclusive and discreet fine dining sanctuary, tucked in a glass tower on 72nd. You don’t book a table here. You get summoned—if your net worth ends in 5 zeros.
The maître d’ practically bowed when he saw Krystal. We were led to a private glass dining cove with a chandelier made of raw diamonds, and a view of the skyline so sharp it hurt.
The chef himself came out.
Chef Ludovic. Michelin-starred, French-trained, and rumored to charge 5¢ just to consult on your choice of appetizer.
Krystal didn’t even open the menu.
“The lobster saffron risotto, Wagyu tartare, and the truffle gougères for starters. The duck confit for him. I’ll take the seabass poached in champagne.”
She glanced at me. “Unless you’re craving something else, Darren?”
“Whatever you order is fine,” I replied, more stunned than hungry.
She ordered a bottle of Château Cheval Blanc 1947. The entire bottle.
The last time I saw that label, it was in a collector’s vault. Price tag: $3.
I kept checking if anyone else around us was breathing the same air as this woman. Most were buried in quiet conversations, expensive suits, diamond-studded watches. The clink of glasses. The hush of velvet.
And Krystal, shining in the center like an untouchable gem.
Halfway through our meal—after the gougères melted like dreams and the risotto made me forget my own name—Krystal leaned forward.
“I want to talk about the McLaren family.”
That got my attention.
“Legally, financially, everything. I want to plan a controlled collapse. Slow burn. Corporate sabotage. Elegant chaos.”
“You want me to advise you on how to bring down your own adoptive family?” I asked, swallowing hard.
She smiled. “Not my family. Just some people who share a surname and a long history of underestimating me.”
I wanted to ask more, but she changed the subject—fast. Typical Krystal. A storm in Chanel, but one that moves on her own wind.
The bill came in a velvet envelope with gold embossing.
And then…
She dropped a single dime on the tray.
The waiter went pale. “M-Ma’am… th-this is…”
“A tip,” she said coolly. “And yes, it’s legal tender.”
He choked. Literally choked.
I sipped the last of my wine and tried not to laugh.
Her Rolls-Royce Droptail waited out front, with Julian—her driver—polishing the fender like it was royalty.
Before she got in, she turned to me.
“Come by the penthouse tomorrow morning, Darren. I want your input on a few… investments. Bring your A-game.”
She slid into the leather seat, the door closing with the weight of silence and money.
I stood there, unsure if I’d just had lunch or walked willingly into the fire.
But one thing was certain.
Krystal Hunter wasn’t just rich.
She was untouchable.
And she wanted revenge… served with wine older than my law degree.
A few minutes later.
After Krystal’s car vanished down Fifth Avenue, I didn’t go home.
I went back to the office, loosened my tie, and poured myself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter in my mini bar. It wasn’t vintage. Nothing fancy. Not like the wine she poured earlier like it was water.
Krystal Hunter.
She was… something else.
A storm in heels. A phoenix with a bank account. But behind that sass, that power, that god-tier wardrobe—there was something else.
Wounds.
Real ones. And I needed to understand them.
Not because she paid me well.
Not even because she owned a very expensive building.
But because something in her eyes today told me she was still fighting ghosts.
I sat down at my computer and opened a private legal database. Something no average sleuth could access.
McLaren Family. McLaren Cigar Inc.
Mid-sized, generationally owned. Started out legit. But recent years? Sketchy dealings. Slipping stocks. Hidden offshore transfers. Frequent restructuring.
Interesting.
I pulled up a list of academic disciplinary records from a private college in upstate New York. Found a file on a “Krystal McLaren.”
Unexcused absences.
Library incidents. One incident report: “Locked in janitor closet for 6 hours during finals. No footage.”
The report had no consequences. But the name of the complainant?
Krystal M.
And the person who filed the response?
MJ McLaren.
My stomach turned. That wasn’t just a feud. That was systemic bullying—swept under the rug by connections and power.
Her high school? Worse.
Krystal’s name popped up linked to an injury report involving boiling water. No charges filed. A teacher’s note: “Krystal is often quiet. Withdrawn. Sometimes bruised.”
No follow-up. No justice.
I grabbed my phone and called Wade, a former client turned finance shark.
“Darren?” he answered, groggy.
“Yeah. Sorry to wake you. I need dirt. McLaren Cigar Inc. Financials. Real ones.”
“Oof. That old bastard Elias still running it?”
“Barely. They’re treading water. And I think there’s more under the surface.”
“Okay, I’ll dig. Last I heard, they were using shell vendors to cover smuggled fake luxury goods. One of their branches got flagged for tax evasion.”
My jaw clenched.
“One more thing,” I said. “If you find anything about a Krystal McLaren—”
“Wait, Krystal Hunter?”
“…Yeah.”
He whistled. “Bro. You’re working with her?”
“She’s a client.”
“She’s a damn myth in the finance groups right now. Just bought Central Park Tower and made it look like a grocery run. You’re telling me she’s the same girl from that family?”
I said nothing.
“Okay. Now I’m definitely helping. I owe her. She shorted stock in one of my competitors and saved me from bankruptcy last week. She didn’t even ask for anything in return.”
I blinked. That… wasn’t part of her file.
I leaned back in my chair.
Krystal wasn’t just seeking revenge.
She was climbing from the ashes of hell, one dime at a time.
And every inch of power she held? She earned it.
But she was still surrounded by snakes.
Especially in the McLaren circle.
If she was going to burn that house down… she deserved someone who’d help carry the gasoline.
I picked up the phone again.
“Hey. It’s Darren. I want full corporate files on McLaren Cigar. And put a spotlight on every shady move their CFO’s made in the past decade.”
I ended the call.
Tomorrow, I’d give her everything she needed.
But tonight, I stared at her name on the file.
Krystal.
And I swore to myself: I will not be one more man who lets her get hurt again.
That Night – The Dinner & The Reveal
I wasn’t sure if it was a business dinner or… something more.
All I knew was, when Krystal Hunter walked into Le Palais d’Or—Manhattan’s most exclusive rooftop restaurant in a dress that could end empires—my brain stopped functioning for a full two seconds.
The maître d’ nearly bowed.
“Mr. Johnson,” he greeted. “Your guest has arrived.”
No, she didn’t arrive.
She made an entrance.
Satin black, backless dress. Diamond-studded heels. A Chanel clutch I suspected wasn’t even on the market yet.
And me?
I was just a guy in a suit with law degrees and a heart not built for this kind of client.
We were seated in a private glass pod overlooking the city. Manhattan sparkled beneath us like it was auditioning for her approval.
She gave me a cheeky smile. “I hope your palate is more expensive than your tie, Counselor.”
I raised a brow. “It’s Armani.”
“Still looks like it’s scared of me.”
I laughed. “Everything’s scared of you.”