Chapter 42 42
“He said he loved me.” My laugh came out bitter. “He kissed me under that willow tree in the garden. Promised me forever. And a week later, I walked in on him with MJ. On the kitchen counter. The one I used to clean.”
Darren’s eyes darkened. “He’s a fool.”
I exhaled sharply and looked up at the stained-glass ceiling. “This house was built on lies. But now? It’s mine. Every window. I snuck to the fridge for dinner after everyone ‘forgot’ to set a plate.”
He gently pulled me into his arms. “Then let’s rewrite the story. One room at a time.”
I leaned into him, burying my face into his shoulder. “You’re not just saying that because you’re secretly into trauma girls, are you?”
His laugh was low and warm against my hair. “Only the ones who own mansions.”
“Gold digger,” I sniffled.
“Property rights enthusiast,” he corrected.
We stood there in silence, wrapped in something that felt like safety. Like maybe I could breathe here again. Not as the girl no one wanted. But as the woman who took everything back.
“You know what the best part is?” I whispered.
“What?”
“They can’t even sue me for it. My father’s will is ironclad. The whole estate is in my name. And if they even try to crash on a couch, I’ll make them scrub the floors—just like they made me.”
Darren grinned. “Starting with the chandelier?”
“Especially the chandelier.”
He kissed my forehead. “Welcome home, Krystal.”
And this time, I believed it.
Later that afternoon, I wandered through the mansion barefoot, Darren trailing behind with his tie loosened and jacket slung over one shoulder, like some absurdly hot executive ghost haunting the corridors of my childhood trauma.
“You sure you want to keep all this old furniture?” he asked, tapping the armrest of a velvet chaise with two fingers, raising a perfect brow.
I stopped by the living room doorway and stared at the antique set that used to be off-limits for me. “That one? It’s where Norma had me kneel for hours because I spilled orange juice on her silk robe. She made me watch them eat breakfast like I was a dog.”
Darren’s jaw clenched. “We’re setting it on fire.”
I laughed wetly. “You’re getting arson-y again.”
“Only medium arson,” he shrugged. “Controlled emotional bonfire. Therapeutic.”
He was half-kidding. But only half.
We moved from room to room. The cold marble floors echoed with ghosts. I could still hear MJ’s fake laugh in the hallway, Era’s condescending tone correcting my grammar, Ivy’s shrieks of blame when something went missing. I used to hide in the linen closet just to read in peace.
“Is it weird,” I said, pausing in the old study, “that I thought if I became good enough, smart enough, useful enough… they’d love me?”
“No,” Darren said softly, running a hand along the dusty bookshelf. “It’s what all kids do when the adults suck.”
That made my throat tighten again.
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, standing taller, “they’ll have to make appointments to even see the driveway.”
Darren smirked. “And what do you charge for a disappointment tour?”
I shot him a look. “Oh, you want sass? I’ll charge in emotional debt and back-pay for every therapy session they owe me.”
“You’ll make a fortune.”
“I already did.”
The truth hung in the air like a quiet triumph. Because I had. Every sleepless night. Every degree. Every contract I secured. Every empire I built in silence while they laughed behind my back.
The grand dining hall still looked like something out of a gothic fever dream. Darren pulled out the head chair and gestured. “Care to reclaim your throne, Miss McLaren?”
“I will sit,” I said, dramatically flipping my hair, “only if you promise to feed me something besides humiliation and cold porridge.”
He chuckled and slid into the seat next to mine. “Done. You want revenge cupcakes or generational-wealth brownies?”
“You cook?”
“I threaten chefs.”
“…I’ll allow it.”
As the sun dipped outside the arched windows, painting the floor with golden sorrow, I looked at him, this man who saw me—all of me. The broken pieces. The girl who cried in attics. The woman who bought the house that almost broke her.
“I hated myself for so long,” I admitted quietly, tracing a fingertip along the wood grain. “For not being enough. For staying. For hoping.”
He reached for my hand again. “You don’t have to carry that anymore.”
“But I do.” I looked up at him. “Because it made me who I am. It’s why I fight harder. Love deeper. Trust less—until someone proves they’re worth the risk.”
Darren met my eyes with something fierce and unshakable. “Then let me prove it. Every day, if I have to.”
“You already are.”
He leaned closer, his voice lower now, silk and fire. “Krystal Hunter, do you want to commit corporate revenge, emotional healing, and possibly light vengeance-fueled romance with me for the foreseeable future?”
My heart thudded. “Only if you also do dishes.”
He laughed. “You drive a hard bargain.”
I pulled him into a kiss. Soft at first. Then deeper. Like I was finally letting the walls collapse. Like the ghosts were gone.
And somewhere, under that cursed chandelier, the girl who used to be invisible sat quietly… watching me with wonder.
She finally smiled.
She was home.