Chapter 23 23
The chef, personally summoned, presented us with a four-course tasting menu.
Truffle foie gras brûlée.
Bluefin toro with 24k gold flakes.
Seared A5 Wagyu over caviar risotto.
Champagne mousse with edible crystals.
Every bite was sin. Every glance from her? Worse.
She didn’t talk much business at first. Just slow, biting banter.
“So, Mr. Harvard Prodigy,” she drawled, swirling her $1 wine, “What’s the biggest crime you’ve committed as a lawyer?”
I leaned forward. “Sitting here with a client looking like you and pretending it’s just ‘business.’”
Her laugh could’ve set fire to the skyline.
When dessert arrived, I slid a folder across the velvet-lined table.
“McLaren Cigar Inc.,” I said. “You were right. They’re filthier than a frat house jacuzzi.”
She raised an eyebrow, but her lips twitched. “That bad?”
“Worse. Three flagged shell companies in Panama. Unpaid taxes since 2018. Two lawsuits quietly paid off. And your dear cousin MJ? Cheated her way through college—contracted people to write her entire senior thesis.”
Krystal tilted her head, absorbing it all, but I saw the flicker in her eyes.
Pain. Satisfaction. A strange cocktail of the two.
“Thank you,” she said softly, almost too softly for someone who once tipped a hairdresser with a penny like it was royal decree.
I wanted to say something personal. Something bold.
Instead, I said, “You deserve to win, Krystal.”
She blinked. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you remind me what power looks like when it’s earned.”
A pause.
Then, her voice dropped low, sultry. “Careful, Counselor. You’re starting to sound like someone who likes me.”
I didn’t flinch. “I’m not starting. I’ve been trying not to for days.”
The silence after that was charged enough to power the whole building.
Later That Night – Hospital Visit
I needed air. I needed clarity. I needed… to visit my mom.
Mount Sinai was quiet this time of night. Mom’s room was dim, the soft beeping of machines a familiar rhythm. She was asleep, frail, her skin pale from her ongoing blood treatment. The nurse smiled as I entered.
“Mr. Johnson? A quick update. Your mother's treatment schedule is secured for another year. The invoice has already been covered.”
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
She tilted her head. “You didn’t know? An anonymous benefactor paid it in full this morning. We assumed it was you.”
I staggered back a step. “Name?”
She hesitated, then handed me a note that was clipped to the file.
“No mother should suffer for a son’s pride. Tell Darren… this is just the beginning.” —K.H.”
I sat down in the plastic chair.
My breath caught. That wasn’t just money. That was grace. That was her.
This wasn’t about paperwork anymore. This wasn’t just about revenge, or towers, or dimes that bought dynasties. This was about a woman who got stabbed, burned, laughed at—and still showed up for people she didn’t owe anything to.
Krystal Hunter wasn’t a client. She was a category all on her own.
And God help me—I was already falling.
THE MORNING AFTER at McLaren State
The following morning arrived like a slap to the face. The wind howled through the drafty halls of the McLaren mansion. Snow piled against the windows. The heater was still dead, the power hadn’t returned, and the only food anyone could find was a half-used box of cornflakes and an open carton of cold milk. There was no coffee. No toast. Not even butter.
Everyone gathered in the freezing kitchen wearing mismatched robes, blankets, and fur coats over their designer pajamas like sad, shivering peacocks.
Norma sat at the kitchen island, pouring the last of the cereal into a chipped bowl.
Elias leaned over the counter, hair disheveled, still smelling of whisky and last night’s regrets.
Venice, scrolling mindlessly through her phone, groaned. “Ugh. No Wi-Fi again. What is this—medieval England?”
MJ stormed in holding a pink designer bag. “Someone stole my other Chanel!” she shrieked. “The one with the crystal tiger clasp!”
Ivy snapped back. “Why would anyone steal your tacky-ass bag? Maybe the butler sold it for drug money.”
The butler, Mr. Gaines, who had loyally served the family for 17 years, flinched but remained silent as he stirred powdered hot chocolate in a chipped mug over a portable camping stove they had found in the garage.
Elias, squinting through his reading glasses, opened an envelope from the bank.
And froze.
“What the hell is this?” he whispered, then louder, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”
Everyone paused. Even the twins stopped clawing at each other.
“What?” Norma asked, mid-chew.
“Our accounts are frozen!” Elias shouted. “Savings, investments—everything!”
Norma blinked. “What? Why? That can’t be—”
“It says here there are pending ownership disputes and legal investigations. They won’t even tell me who filed it! All our cards—every one of them—is suspended!”
Norma stood up so fast the stool crashed behind her. “This is your fault, Elias! You’ve been gambling again, haven’t you?! At those shady poker clubs with oil tycoons and Russian widows!”
“Oh don’t start, Norma! I gave you the bill money. You were supposed to take care of the house! Where did that go? More crystal dragons and Himalayan hair extensions?!”
“My extensions are Malaysian, you clown!”
Era, wrapped in a fleece unicorn blanket, started crying. “I’m c-c-cold! I didn’t ask to live like this!”
“SHUT UP!” Ivy and MJ screamed in unison, glaring at Era like her tears cost them heat.
MJ spun around. “I’m serious, that bag was worth five coins!”
Venice muttered without looking up, “You mean five dimes.”
MJ shrieked, “It’s slang, moron! God, you’re so low class sometimes.”
“That’s our money you’re losing!” Ivy barked. “Why the hell are you still buying bags when we haven’t paid for heat?!”
“You think I knew we’d be broke by Tuesday?!”