Chapter 28 28
He remembered the blood.
He remembered leaving her in the kitchen, slumped and silent, after one of Norma’s “discipline dinners” had gone too far.
He was sure she was dead.
But now?
She had vanished… and suddenly, his mansion was gone… his accounts frozen… his friends gone cold… and the name on the new deed?
Krystal.
Elias sat down on the dusty mattress with no sheets. One thin blanket, a flickering ceiling light, the faint smell of mildew. His family—Norma, the twins, Ivy, Venice, MJ, Era—were all crammed into the room screaming.
“It’s your fault we’re here!” Norma spat at Elias.
“You were supposed to be the provider!”
“Well if you had paid the bills, we wouldn’t be eating cereal with cold milk!” he shot back.
“The butler probably stole everything!” Ivy cried, “That old man hated me!”
“You used all the heat on your hair straightener again, MJ! My skin is freezing!” Era sobbed, her unicorn clutched tight.
“My bag is GONE!” Venice shrieked. “FIVE DIMES, IVY! FIVE DIMES!”
“Oh, cry me a river, Miss Fake Prada!”
“Says the girl who flunked out of fashion school and blamed the lighting!”
“SHUT UP!” Elias bellowed.
But they didn’t.
The room echoed with screaming, blame, slurs, insults, hair-pulling, cursing. Like a nest of vipers turning on each other.
He looked around at his broken, bitter family. His jaw tightened. The air was thick with dust and spite.
And for the first time in years… Elias was afraid.
Not of poverty.
Not of shame.
But of her.
Krystal.
The girl he thought he buried with silence and cruelty.
The girl who now lived like a ghost in the seams of their unraveling life.
She was alive.
And he had no idea what she would do next.
The next few days were chaotic—a full-blown nightmare wrapped in humiliation, served cold with a side of karma.
They sold their designer clothes on the sidewalk like a pathetic yard sale. Ivy stood there, mascara smeared and in a panic, trying to convince strangers that her sequined Balmain blazer was "vintage rare" while a child asked if it was part of a Halloween costume. MJ tried to trade his Louis Vuitton sneakers for two cheeseburgers and a Coke. The guy just laughed and walked away.
They pawned their iPhones next. Era sobbed as her beloved pink phone got locked away behind a glass case at a dusty old pawnshop next to a used blender. “All my TikToks were on there!” she wailed, like she’d lost a limb. Ivy was screaming at the clerk for offering only $80 for her iPhone, and Norma was trying to sell an Apple Watch she didn’t even know how to use. The cashier just stared.
Walmart became their new Mecca. Their ‘fashion’—if you could call it that—transformed overnight. Ivy, once a walking ad for Paris Fashion Week, was now stomping through aisles in knockoff Crocs and a "Live, Laugh, Love" sweatshirt. MJ wore cargo shorts two sizes too big and a T-shirt with a smiling taco that said Let’s Taco ’Bout It. He nearly cried.
“Do I look like a taco joke kind of guy?” he asked Elias bitterly.
“Yes,” Elias muttered, pushing their cart full of instant noodles, off-brand cereal, and exactly two bottles of discount shampoo that smelled like expired melon.
They had to share one room. No beds. Just one moldy mattress they found near a dumpster. Era refused to sleep on it at first—until she collapsed from exhaustion and cried herself to sleep with her legs dangling off the side. MJ used his “Taco” shirt as a pillow. Ivy tried to make a blanket out of Walmart plastic bags and finally admitted defeat when they all crinkled louder than her complaints.
The sink still leaked.
The rats grew bolder.
Norma tried to cook rice one night and blew the fuse. For an hour, they sat in darkness, eating half-cooked rice with plastic spoons and blaming each other for the downfall of their empire.
“You used to wear diamonds,” Elias muttered to Norma.
“You used to have a spine,” she shot back.
They couldn’t afford Ubers anymore, so they took the bus. Public transport—with people. MJ got sneezed on. Ivy gagged the whole ride. Era missed the bus twice and had to walk back in the rain with wet socks and ruined mascara.
And Elias?
He saw Lady K’s name everywhere. Online. In newspapers. Whispers in corners.
Ms Hunter, the unknown elite, now CEO of something huge, whispering her way up society’s spine.
The next day because Norma was desperate. She remembered the incoming gala.
It was the hottest ticket of the season—the charity gala held at the Crystal Pavilion, an architectural marvel perched high above Manhattan’s skyline, wrapped in diamonds and whispers. The guest list was as exclusive as a royal banquet, with CEOs, celebrities, and elite old money all in attendance. At the center of the buzz was the mysterious benefactor behind the event: Ms. Hunter, an enigma the financial world was now calling Lady K.
For Norma McLaren, this was her last desperate chance to claw back into the world she once ruled with false pearls and counterfeit charm. After being thrown out of their mansion like squatters in yesterday’s couture, she needed a win—no, a resurrection. With a designer gown borrowed from a high-end boutique and a diamond-studded clutch she insisted was “a family heirloom” (even though the store tags were still tucked inside), she strutted into the gala lobby with the ghost of her pride glued to her spine.
Her daughters had stayed behind, bruised from public mockery and frozen bank accounts. Norma came alone.
She gave her name to the check-in clerk with a practiced smile and a subtle tilt of her chin.
“Norma McLaren,” she said, loud enough for those within earshot to hear. “I’m on the VIP list.”
The woman behind the reception tablet blinked politely, typed, and…paused.
Norma leaned forward.
“I said—”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the clerk interrupted, confusion curling at the corner of her lips. “Your name isn’t on the list.”
Norma’s perfectly arched brow twitched.
“That’s not possible. My publicist RSVP’d weeks ago. Confirmed.”
“Again, I’m very sorry. But Ms. Hunter personally approved all VIP entries. You’re not on the list.” The clerk tried not to grimace, already sensing what was about to come.
Norma barked a high laugh, the kind that used to turn heads at parties. Tonight, it only turned up camera flashes as journalists began to notice the scene unfolding by the velvet ropes.
“I’m Norma McLaren! I’ve hosted fashion galas, political dinners—I was the face of—”
Rip.
Her voice cut off as her too-tight gown, which had felt oddly snug all evening, finally gave out at the seams. With a brutal pop, the zipper burst apart at the sides, the fabric around her ribs cinching and twisting, refusing to contain her anger or her waistline.
Gasps from the growing crowd. Flashes. Laughter.
The doorman, professionally expressionless, stepped forward. “Please, ma’am. You’re creating a disturbance.”
Her cheeks turned red, lipstick bleeding at the corners as the humiliation devoured her whole.
She stammered something about calling someone, suing, lawyers—but the man had already turned his back. She stood there, alone, in a cracked designer gown and shoes she couldn’t afford, clutching a handbag that suddenly felt embarrassingly fake.