Chapter 25 25
KRYSTAL HUNTER POV
Few days earlier
I woke up with the weight of silk sheets, the smell of chamomile and sandalwood candles still lingering in the air, and one thought clouding my very expensive, slightly sleep-deprived mind:
Darren Johnson.
And no, not the boring version with his tie too tight and his signature too crisp.
I mean the dream version—the one whose hands gripped my hips like I was a contract he was eager to breach.
God.
I blinked up at the massive glass ceiling above my bed.
No. We are not catching feelings. Not now. Not when I just bought a penthouse, humiliated three people with a dime, and ordered a $3,000 car like it was takeout.
But still.
I touched my lips.
Why did I dream about him whispering my name like a prayer in a courtroom?
I padded across the marble floor, past the ridiculous 12-foot-tall painting of a woman with a crown and a sword (me, obviously), and made my espresso.
Then I opened my burner phone.
Yes, I have one.
Because I’m not a naive girl with an expensive dress and no backup plan.
Tomas had texted me last night:
“Mount Sinai. Private wing. Room 618. Blood disorder. Regular treatments. $2 annual plan.”
$2. A year.
That was nothing. I’ve spent more on Korean meals and champagne-infused bubble baths.
But Darren—my lawyer, my maybe-crush, my dangerously loyal shark—had spent nights panicking over it. I heard him. Yesterday. Talking to his brother outside a diner on 9th.
“I got a huge client finally. She’ll pay well. I’ll get Mom the full treatment plan. Maybe… maybe this time I won’t feel like I’m failing her.”
And when he said that?
My manicured fingers didn’t twitch.
My heart did.
So I paid it.
No fuss. No strings. No signature.
I called the hospital through a private line, spoke in a filtered voice, and made the payment in full.
And I left a note.
Not to be cute.
Not to be romantic.
But to remind him who I am.
I’m Krystal Hunter. The girl who was locked in closets. The girl who ate a winning ticket and bled on the floor. The girl who rose.
I don’t need his gratitude.
I just need him focused.
Because if I’m going to burn the McLarens to the ground, I need my best player undistracted—and loyal.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
It wouldn't hurt to have him look at me the way he did last night over champagne and secrets.
Tomas texted again:
“I’ve got more. MJ has been using the McLaren business cards for private Botox appointments and luxury lingerie subscriptions. Photos coming.”
Perfect.
I smirked into my espresso, took a slow sip, and whispered to myself:
“Let the games begin.”
The sun spilled through the massive glass walls of my penthouse like it was auditioning for a perfume ad. I sat at the head of my sixteen-seater gold-rimmed dining table, my silk robe hugging my body like a secret, while my personal chef plated what I like to call my “I’m-richer-than-your-family-tree” breakfast.
Caviar omelette with shaved truffle.
Butter so expensive it had its own passport.
Orange juice flown in from Valencia.
And my iPhone?
It gleamed beside my espresso cup like sin itself.
Then it rang.
Ugh.
Only one person dared disturb me before my second sip of liquid gold.
Darren Johnson.
Of course.
I slid my finger across the screen.
"Yes, Counselor Johnson? Is the law on fire or is it just your voice again?"
His sigh crackled through the speaker like he’d been up all night—which honestly only made his baritone sexier.
“You paid my mother’s bill.”
I twirled my spoon, pretending I wasn’t smirking.
“You’re welcome.”
“Krystal—why would you do that without telling me? I don’t want pity—”
“Pity?” I laughed, crystal-clear and unapologetically wealthy. “Darling, I don’t do pity. I do results.”
Silence. He knew I was right. Of course he did.
“I just… I wanted to take care of it myself.”
“Then you should’ve done it faster,” I said sweetly. “But you were too busy looking like a walking Wall Street thirst trap and signing real estate contracts.”
Another pause.
“I’m not some charity case, Krystal.”
“You’re not. You’re mine,” I said smoothly, sipping my espresso. “My lawyer. My plan. My chaos to command.”
“You mean ‘you need me to focus on your revenge plan’.”
“Exactly. I need you focused. On me. On the details. On the war. Not distracted by fifty-dollar blood tests.”
He was quiet again.
Then I added, just because I could—
“Come by later. Lunch is on me. I’ll introduce you to Tomas and Illana. You’re going to love them. Tomas is my IT sword and Illana is my glittery spy-slash-walking TikTok disaster.”
“You’re throwing a strategy meeting over truffle risotto, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “It’s foie gras risotto. Ugh, get it right.”
I hung up, tossed my phone onto a velvet pillow, and grinned like a villainess who just got her nails sharpened.
The next morning
I sipped my espresso slowly, the bitter richness coating my tongue, grounding me as I leaned back against the plush cushions of my penthouse sofa. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind me offered a view of a snow-draped Manhattan skyline, calm and glimmering like crystal. It was a stark contrast to what was playing out on the screen in front of me—chaos. Delicious, long-overdue chaos.
The McLaren mansion, once a symbol of Elias’ greed and false power, was now nothing more than a warzone of screams, flailing hands, and broken pride.
The hidden cameras Tomas installed had been worth every favor I owed her. Every room, every hallway—documented in high definition. It was like watching a reality show, except this wasn’t scripted. This was justice.
Norma was shrieking so hard I could almost see the veins bulging in her neck as she stomped after Elias, waving a stack of final notices. “You said the account was fine! You said we still had money!” Her face was red, her once-perfect curls in disarray.
“Don’t you dare blame me! You’ve been wasting money like it grew on trees!” Elias bellowed back, his eyes bloodshot, tie crooked, hair thinning by the second.
They didn’t even hear Darren’s knock at first. But the moment the door opened, everything went still.