Chapter 33 33
Then, as if the universe choreographed the moment, the staff at the salon next door—a high-end, invite-only place where Venice had once been rejected—rushed to greet Krystal with cold sparkling water and custom-scented hand towels.
“Miss Hunter, your 2PM stylist is ready. We reserved the private suite.”
Venice stood there, outside the glass doors, people walking past her like she didn’t exist.
Krystal disappeared into the building.
Venice didn’t speak for a long time.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Ivy:
“Did you see Krystal’s face at the Vogue dinner? I think she has staff. STAFF, VENICE.”
Another from MJ:
“She’s faking it. She has to be. Right?”
Venice stared at her reflection in the salon glass. She didn’t look fake.
She looked powerful.
And for the first time, Venice didn’t want revenge.
She wanted answers.
So she sat on the steps. And waited.
Maybe, just maybe, her little cousin slash stepsister would talk to her.
Maybe redemption didn’t always start with apologies.
Sometimes… it started with a smirk.
Krystal’s POV – Inside the Salon
The scent of bergamot oil and crushed rose petals lingered in the air as the stylist gently sectioned my hair, her gloved fingers as delicate as lace. I lounged in the plush velvet salon chair, sipping champagne from a crystal flute while an aesthetician massaged a collagen mask onto my décolletage.
Across the glass walls of the high-rise salon—Salon Vero, the most exclusive in the city—was a chaos-stained sight that didn’t belong in this temple of glamor: Venice McLaren, standing outside like a soaked peasant in designer ruins.
My eyes glinted behind oversized, limited-edition Gucci sunglasses. She was practically banging at the reception desk while trying to keep her fake Chanel bag from falling apart. Her voice—screechy, breathy, entitled—carried even through double-glazed glass.
“Tell her I’m her sister! She’ll see me. I know she will!”
Oh, honey.
I leaned back lazily, raising my flute in mock salute, and turned just enough so that our eyes might meet—if she squinted hard enough past the reflection and her swollen ego. Her expression twisted into pure disbelief.
Yep, it’s me. The “dead girl walking.”
The family disgrace. The invisible punching bag turned power player.
My lip curled into the most infuriating smirk I could muster. One that said: You. Can’t. Sit. With. Me.
The receptionist, impeccably dressed in minimalist white, didn’t even blink as she turned Venice away with the smooth professionalism of someone who knew exactly who I was.
“Ms. McLaren, I’m sorry. You’re not on the appointment list, nor authorized to wait for any client today. This establishment has a strict privacy policy. Please leave, or we will call security.”
Venice’s mouth flapped open like a dying fish.
I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I let the stylist continue combing my freshly tinted waves, basking in the quiet glee of karma being served scorching.
"Would you like your ends trimmed sharper this time, Miss Krystal?" the stylist asked.
I sipped my champagne slowly, the golden bubbles fizzing against my lips. "Sharp enough to cut through entitlement, darling. I’ve got family lurking outside."
The whole salon chuckled.
Venice, red-faced and humiliated, was finally shooed off the premises, her heels catching awkwardly on the curb as she stumbled toward her Uber. I turned my attention back to the mirror, where my reflection didn’t just look wealthy.
She looked untouchable.
“Let them scream,” I murmured to no one in particular. “Let them knock on every door I walked through years ago. I’m not the little girl they left bleeding anymore.”
This time, I smiled—not just because I won. But because they hadn’t even realized:
The game had only just begun.
And I had front-row seats to their unraveling.
THE MCCLAREN HOUSE
The McLaren apartment had seen better days, it reeked of canned tuna and reheated bitterness.
They sat in the cold, small dining room under a dim wall light with two flickering bulbs—no one had replaced the others since they don't have staff left. Venice slumped at the table in a faux silk robe that still had the security tag on it. Ivy and MJ picked half-heartedly at the stale baguette that had been toasted to hide its age. There was a dented can of corned beef passed around like it was caviar.
“I had to beg to get inside, you know,” Venice muttered, voice trembling with disbelief. “The guards wouldn’t let me in. Guards. She had guards. And her hair looked expensive. And her skin—glowing like she bathes in golden milk.”
“Krystal?” Ivy blinked. “Our Krystal?”
“She looked at me like I was the help,” Venice hissed. “Like I was a stain. And then—then—they threw me out! I had to walk to the corner. In heels!”
Norma, who was stirring powdered soup with a butter knife, let out a slow sigh. “She can’t afford guards. She’s probably dating some old sugar daddy. A desperate one.”
But Elias wasn’t speaking. He stared down at his plate, knuckles white around his spoon.
“Dad?” MJ asked. “You okay?”
Then, Elias finally snapped. He threw the spoon against the table with a loud clang. “No, I’m not okay! Because something is very, very wrong.”
Everyone froze.
He stood up abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. “You want to know why Krystal didn’t die? Why she’s out there looking like a damn Forbes heiress and we’re eating expired cream of mushroom?”
Venice narrowed her eyes. “You said you went to talk to her that night. That you scared her off. That she ran—”
“She didn’t run!” Elias bellowed. “She was already leaving. Her apartment looked like she was packing up her entire life. Boxes, duffel bags, envelopes. She wasn’t scared of me—she looked like she’d already won.”
He stopped pacing, face red, breathing hard. “I found a lottery ticket on her hand while we were talking. I—I know she won. One thousand dollars. Just like that. And I knew.”
Norma’s jaw dropped. “You stole it?”
“She owed me!” Elias shouted. “After everything we gave her, the roof over her head, food—”
“What food?” MJ scoffed, slicing into his brick-like bread roll. “We made her eat in the kitchen.”
Elias ignored him. “I demanded give me the ticket. She refused. Said it was hers. Called me names. Said she pitied us. PITY!”
“And?” Norma’s voice was sharp now. “What did you do?”
There was a long silence.
“I shoved her,” Elias finally whispered. “She hit her head. I thought—I thought she died. She wasn’t breathing. Blood all over. I panicked. She ate the ticket. Swallowed it.”
“You killed her?” Venice squealed. “And she’s alive?!”
“She was dead when I left!” Elias insisted. “Or I thought she was.”
Norma rubbed her temples. “So either you didn’t kill her, or—what? She came back from the dead like Jesus with a blowout and personal security?”
“Maybe someone found her,” MJ offered.
“No,” Elias gritted. “She planned this. She wanted us to think she was gone.”
Norma dropped the butter knife with a clatter. “So she knows what you did. And she’s playing the long game. Ruining us. Mocking us.”