Chapter 49 49
And as our bodies met again and again beneath the moonlight, every sigh, every moan, every shuddering breath that echoed through the penthouse didn’t just mark pleasure.
It marked power.
Love in its most dangerous, honest form.
When we finally lay tangled in the aftermath—skin on skin, his hand curled in my hair, the smell of champagne and roses thick in the air—I looked up at him.
“You know they’ll try to come back,” I said softly. “Try to reclaim it all.”
He smiled like a man who had already prepared a thousand counter-moves.
“Let them try,” Darren whispered against my temple. “We’ve already won the game. Now we just build the next one.”
And I knew then—with every muscle humming, with every heartbeat syncing with his—that this was just the beginning.
The Hunter Empire had risen.
And its queen? Untouchable.
News Alert – Two Weeks Later
"BREAKING: Elias McLaren Claims He Was 'Manipulated' Into Signing Over the McLaren Legacy. Alleges Emotional Blackmail by His Niece, Krystal Hunter."
The headline spread like wildfire. Morning shows, gossip columns, even finance blogs.
Photos of Elias looking tragically wronged—his silver hair perfectly disheveled, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his fake vulnerability—were plastered across the tabloids.
And beneath it?
"An Explosive New Allegation: Elias McLaren claims his niece threatened to expose deeply private family secrets if he didn’t comply. ‘She preyed on our love for her,’ he tells the press. ‘She’s not who you think she is.’"
Of course. A last-minute Hail Mary. A classic McLaren move—paint the woman as unstable, manipulative, cold-hearted. They were trying to reclaim the narrative.
But they forgot one thing. I owned the narrative now.
That Same Morning
I read the article while sipping my matcha in my silk robe, legs curled on the velvet chaise in my new office suite. The windows overlooked the city Elias used to believe belonged to him.
He wanted war?
Darling, I wrote the battle plan.
The door opened quietly.
“Did you see it?” Darren asked, holding up his phone with the headline displayed. His tone wasn’t angry. It was amused.
“Cute,” I replied, placing my cup down. “He’s clawing at relevance like a drowning man.”
“He’s trying to bait you.”
“He forgot I don’t bite. I burn.”
I stood, smoothing the silk down my hips, and walked to my desk where a red folder waited—thicker than usual.
Inside were all the press conference prep notes, legal confirmations, and most importantly, a digital copy of Venice’s public apology, which was scheduled to go live in five hours. The press had already RSVP’d.
And guess what?
His daughter's tears were real.
Because Elias made them apologize. For the “greater good.” For the name. For the scraps of their legacy still barely breathing.
"I want to publicly apologize to my cousin, Krystal Hunter, for my past actions. I was cruel. Jealous. Wrong. She didn’t steal the McLaren legacy—she saved it."
It would be streamed live across every major network.
And I would be there.
Standing beside her.
In white.
Looking like redemption wrapped in silk and diamonds.
Press Conference – Later That Day
Venice wore a muted gray dress and shaking hands. Her usual smoky confidence had dimmed to dust. Cameras flashed. Reporters pressed in. I could hear her swallow beside me, feel the quiet humiliation radiating through her pores.
“Krystal,” one reporter shouted, “how do you respond to Elias McLaren’s recent accusations?”
I smiled sweetly—serenely. As if I’d already written the script.
“I think it’s clear who the manipulator has always been,” I said. Calm, unshaken. “And it’s not the woman who survived. It’s the man who couldn’t stand to watch her rise.”
Gasps. Flashbulbs. Microphones stretching closer.
“But he’s family,” another reporter pushed. “Don’t you care what he thinks?”
I tilted my head, lashes low.
“I care that my name is clean. My business is thriving. And my conscience? Clear.” I placed a gentle hand on Venice’s trembling shoulder. “Some people heal. Some people hang on to power until it rots them.”
Later That Night – Elias POV
He watched the press conference from his penthouse, drink trembling in his hand.
Venice’s voice cracked. She’d betrayed him.
The media had spun—against him.
The world had chosen Krystal.
And for the first time in decades, Elias McLaren realized:
No amount of lies, leverage, or last-minute plays could resurrect a kingdom when the new queen had already taken the throne.
He had lost.
Completely. And the worst part?
She didn’t even look back. But fate was not done yet.
Krystal POV
Because Elias dared to fight back with his obvious tactic and he didn't even apologise for killing me?
Then…Blackmail material?
Oh, sweetheart. We had vaults.
And I don’t mean a cute Google Drive folder with labeled tabs. I mean actual, triple-locked, NDA-signed, back-up encrypted VAULTS. Tomas ran his fingers over them like a pianist preparing for his final, chaotic concerto.
The first file he opened played without mercy:
— Norma, queen of pearls and passive-aggression, was caught on our hidden camera system hurling a fake Birkin at a delivery guy. “Do I look like I’d order from peasant brands?” she screamed, before muttering a slur that would have gotten her canceled by six continents and Santa Claus.
The delivery guy? Now TikTok-famous with a 2M-follower count and a new collab with a major sneaker brand. Karma wears Nikes.
Next tab:
— Ivy, mid-cry, mascara bleeding down her face like a sad raccoon, voice cracking as she voice-noted someone saved as “💎Uncle Ron | New York.”
“Please… just this one appointment. My lips are dissolving, and I look like a sad balloon. You said you liked me pouty…”
Screenshot. Saved. Sent to the team at Page Six with a bow on it.
Next:
— Venice, dripping in fake humility and someone else’s heels, listing a borrowed Chanel dress on a luxury secondhand site with a starting price of 2 dimes and a caption that said, “Worn once to Cannes.”
Only for it to get flagged by Chanel as stolen.
The platform suspended her. The boutique pressed charges. A fashion influencer posted a side-by-side TikTok titled “Rich girl, poor ethics.”
Chef’s kiss.
And then, the grand finale:
— Ivy, the baby McLaren, the angelic-voiced, pseudo-academic influencer… with a secret. Her OnlyFans subscription list leaked via a dumb password reuse (seriously, password1234?). Among her subscribers?
✔️ Her thesis adviser
✔️ A married senator
✔️ Her own boss at the PR firm
The internet exploded.
I mean, imploded. Like someone had set the entire digital ecosystem on fire with a gasoline-soaked Dior scarf.
Tomas clicked through the files like a villain DJ. “They’re basically one headline away from social collapse,” he said calmly, closing the laptop with a satisfying snap.
I stirred my coffee slowly, letting the scent of roasted hazelnut and poetic revenge mix in the air. “Perfect,” I whispered.
But Tomas wasn’t done.
He cracked his knuckles, opened his browser, and uploaded a carefully timed bundle to an anonymous gossip forum. The titles were deadly:
— “McLaren Heiress Goes Full Karen: Watch Norma’s Fake Birkin Breakdown”
— “Desperate DMs: Ivy’s Lip Drama with Sugar Daddy ‘Uncle Ron’”
— “Couture Catastrophe: Venice’s Stolen Dress Saga”
— “OnlyFans Scandal: How Era’s ‘Secret’ Subscriptions Might Cost Her Career”
Each post had embedded links, grainy stills, and just enough unblurred detail to guarantee internet sleuths would go wild. Twitter lit up like it was Christmas morning. TikTok stitched it, remixed it, and turned it into 12 different dance challenges.
Within the hour, #McLarenMeltdown trended worldwide.