Chapter 32 32
Raven leaned in like he was about to drop state secrets. "Krystal paid off her entire university debt."
MJ snorted. “With what? Monopoly money?”
“No, dumbass,” he muttered. “Cash. Like actual thick rolls of it. One of my friends works in the admin office—he said she walked in like she owned the damn building. Quiet, not flashy, but confident. Handed over an envelope, signed a few papers, and left. No questions. No installment plans. Full payment.”
MJ stared at him, her mouth falling open slightly.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said at last, shaking her head. “Krystal couldn’t even afford decent conditioner two years ago. She used to patch her uniform hem with safety pins. She made her own shampoo with baking soda and vinegar!”
Raven shrugged. “Well, she’s got money now. And I don’t mean pocket change. That kind of move? That’s rich-people energy.”
MJ’s fingers twitched over her phone, the temptation to text Ivy or Venice bubbling up like old wine turned to vinegar. But no. They’d just scoff. Just like they always did.
“She’s not rich,” MJ mumbled to herself. “She can't be. She lived in a shoebox. She didn’t even get invited to our cousin’s wedding because they said her dress looked like it was from the clearance rack at Target.”
“She’s not in that shoebox anymore,” Raven said quietly. “The landlord told a friend she moved out in the middle of the night a few months back. Left the place spotless. No forwarding address.”
MJ’s stomach twisted. Maybe from hunger. Maybe from realization. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” Raven said, suddenly bitter, “I want to know how she did it too. One day she’s bleeding out in the kitchen, the next she’s gone. Now she’s paying debts in cash, walking like a ghost no one dares to name.”
He leaned in even closer, voice low, “And you people—her family—you never even filed a missing persons report.”
MJ flinched.
Raven sat back, clearly disgusted. “You all acted like she just vanished because she was weak or stupid. But maybe she didn’t vanish. Maybe she left. Maybe she let you think she was gone.”
MJ’s throat burned. "I—" she tried, but nothing came out. What could she say? That they thought she was dead? That Elias swore he’d seen her "cold and lifeless"? That the bloodstain on the kitchen floor was enough proof?
And now…?
Paid debts. Vanished apartment. Gucci sunglasses. A pair of designer heels MJ swore she once saw in a leaked influencer capsule drop.
“I swear to God,” MJ muttered, heart racing, “if that bitch is alive and doing this to us—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Raven snapped. “She doesn’t need to do anything. You’re all destroying yourselves just fine.”
Then he stood, tossing a crumpled five-cent coin onto the table like a cruel joke.
“Here’s what I promised you. You’re welcome.”
He walked away without another glance.
MJ just sat there, her mouth dry, her fingers trembling as they hovered over her phone again.
That night.
It started subtly.
An Instagram post.
Not on Krystal’s old dusty account, the one that still had a picture of a cracked ceramic mug captioned “Somehow surviving finals.” No, this one was new. Verified. Clean aesthetic. Minimalist white backgrounds, coffee cups with latte art, hands with rings that looked too expensive to be rented.
@k.huntertm—people didn’t even recognize it at first.
Then came the whispers.
A candid photo at a gala. A shot of her, back turned, stepping into a luxury car in a tailored suit that screamed old money. The angle was blurry, but unmistakable. That profile. That walk. That long black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail with those signature pearl pins she used to wear even when they laughed at her for being “granny chic.”
Elias McLaren saw the photo on a gossip site and nearly choked on his overpriced cigar.
“That’s not possible,” he muttered.
But it was.
Because the next day, Krystal walked into a fundraising brunch for the arts—a seat at the VIP table, her name on a gold card, seated between two oil tycoons and across from a senator's daughter.
The press didn’t know what to call her yet. Heiress? Entrepreneur? Silent investor?
They just knew this: Krystal Hunter was not dead.
She was thriving.
And untouchable.
Norma McLaren, clutching her pearls in fury, broke three mugs that week alone.
“How dare she show her face!” she screeched.
“She’s mocking us!”
Elias didn’t speak. He just started sending private investigators.
But none of them could get close.
Krystal’s address was untraceable. Her business dealings went through layers of LLCs. Her name showed up as a benefactor at exclusive events but never on paperwork. She moved through social circles like smoke—ungraspable, elegant, dangerous.
Then came Venice.
Of all the siblings, Venice was the most image-obsessed. She’d spent years building a life of curated selfies, networking brunches, and dating B-list influencers. But lately, doors had started closing. Brand collabs were drying up. PR agents ghosted her.
And then came the final blow:
A blocked entrance at the Dior spring collection preview.
"Sorry, ma’am," said the security guard with a tone too polite to be real. "This event is strictly guest list only."
Venice fumed. “Check again. I’m Venice McLaren.”
The guard raised a brow. “And I said guest list only. Please step aside.”
Humiliated, she moved to the sidewalk, heels clicking against the concrete like angry drumbeats. She pulled out her phone to call her agent—only to see a black car with tinted windows pulling up across the street.
A woman stepped out.
Krystal McLaren.
Venice froze.
Krystal wore a cream power suit and minimalist gold jewelry. Her makeup? Flawless. Her heels? Louboutin. Her presence? A mic drop in human form.
She didn’t say a word.
She just paused.
Saw Venice.
And smirked.
Not a full smile. Not pity.
Just that slight twitch of the lips that said “I know. You know. And you’ll never catch up.”