Chapter 50 50
A verified user reposted the Norma clip with the caption: “So she threw a fake bag at a real person?”
Someone dug up Ivy’s sugar-uncle past and made a short documentary titled “Influencer or Infestation?”
Venice’s stolen dress got its own parody account: @ChanelEscapee. It tweeted in all-caps and confessed crimes like it was on a bender.
Era’s employer released a very PR-crafted statement saying “We are currently reviewing internal matters and do not condone personal activities that conflict with our company values.”
By noon, the McLaren girls were posting vague stories about “mental health breaks,” deactivating comments, and sobbing on designer rugs.
By 2 PM, I was sipping champagne in a silk robe while Tomas popped open another bottle and the headlines kept multiplying like gremlins in water.
By 3 PM?
The final dagger.
A blog titled “Who’s the Real Heiress Now?” posted a glossy photo of me outside the newly rebranded Hunter Holdings HQ, and Hunter Corporations HQ lips glossed, heels sky-high, power suit in deep crimson, hand wrapped around Darren’s.
The caption?
“From Forgotten Sister to Empire Queen: Krystal Hunter Takes the Throne.”
They wanted chaos?
We gave them a buffet. And baby, it was all-you-can-scream.
And the best part?
We were just getting started.
Because…
It took less than four hours for the media bloodbath to begin.
By the time I finished my afternoon tea on the penthouse balcony—chamomile, honeyed, with just a drop of lemon—the first wave had already hit the trending charts.
#BirkinGate
#McLarenMess
#FakeRichChronicles
#OnlyScams
I didn’t even need to lift a finger. The vultures were already circling.
Tomas sent me a screenshot: Norma McLaren EXPOSED! Racist Tantrum Over ‘Fake’ Handbag Leaves Internet Furious.
The video was grainy, filmed from a door camera, but oh so damning. Norma, in full glam, hurled a gaudy knock-off Birkin at an unsuspecting delivery guy’s chest, screamed a slur, then slammed the door. His shocked face alone became a meme in under ten minutes. Twitter was dragging her like a sacrificial goat through flames.
“Oh, you love to see it,” Tomas muttered gleefully from the kitchen island, snacking on his third cookie.
“That’s the limited edition tantrum bag,” I replied dryly. “Shame it didn’t come with a limited edition conscience.”
Then came Ivy.
Screenshots from her “private” finsta leaked—begging a man named Uncle Vince to cover her lip filler appointment because, in her words, “I can’t look poor at brunch again, I’ll literally die.”
She attached her bank details, selfies with duck lips mid-procedure, and—my personal favorite—an audio recording where she told a friend, “I don’t even like him, I just pretend to be dumb and giggle. He gives better tips that way.”
Internet detectives found Uncle Vince’s LinkedIn in record time. CEO of a family-friendly toy brand. Oh, the irony.
Venice? A train wreck.
She tried to sell a Chanel Haute Couture dress she had borrowed from a showroom stylist. Tag still attached. Only, the showroom noticed it went missing and reported the serial number. Her listing on a secondhand fashion site got flagged—then banned. Someone reposted it with the caption: “Stolen Chic? Venice McLaren Can’t Afford Class.”
She issued a statement. It was five words:
“This is a misunderstanding. Stop.”
Internet: Didn’t.
And then... oh, Era. My sweet, delusional cousin.
Tomas hit play on a screen recording. It showed her OnlyFans dashboard. She hadn’t even changed her username—it was literally @ErabelleMcLarenVIP.
Her subscriber list?
Her direct manager from the PR agency.
A dean from her college.
Three married professors.
A man labeled “PastorGreg_77.”
“Oh my god,” I choked, nearly snorting my tea. “She has a church leader on there?”
“Pastor Greg likes thigh-highs, apparently,” Tomas said, zooming in.
By sunset, TikTok was ablaze. Edits flew in from every corner of the globe. Side-by-side videos, meme compilations, dramatic soundtracks. Someone even made a McLaren Meltdown Bingo Card.
And every hour, the heat spread.
Influencers reacted.
Journalists wrote think pieces.
A podcast titled “Fake Heiress: The Fall of the McLaren Sisters” climbed Spotify charts in a single night.
Ivy went silent on social media. Venice posted a photo of a blurry sunset captioned “Let me breathe,” but someone zoomed in and noticed an eviction notice on her table in the reflection. It was brutal.
Norma tried to threaten legal action—but the delivery man already had a lawyer and a GoFundMe with over $30,000 in donations. The public was on his side. She was trending for all the wrong reasons.
As for Elias McLaren, their once-proud patriarch?
He attempted one last desperate move—leaking a “letter” accusing me of manipulating public opinion and sabotaging my cousins. But his signature was forged, and Tomas had receipts proving he was the one who reached out to tabloids years ago to smear my biological mother after her death.
Within hours, the letter became another meme.
“Sir, this is a Wendy’s.”
“L+Ratio+Your daughter’s richer.”
“You raised raccoons in couture.”
It was beautiful chaos.
The headlines by evening?
"Krystal Hunter: Heiress of Poise, Power, and Petty Revenge."
"McLaren Empire Collapses, Reborn Under the Hunter Legacy."
"From Ashes to A-List: The Queen Returns."
Tomas toasted with his glass of wine. “To poetic justice.”
Darren wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my temple, eyes glinting with something deeper than just celebration. “You didn’t just burn the house down, love. You rebuilt a palace on the ashes.”
And me?
I sipped my champagne slowly. Let the bubbles fizz on my tongue. Watched the sunset over the city that once called me a nobody.
“Cheers,” I said softly. “To every girl they underestimated.”
And just like that—my silence became their chaos.
My smile, their undoing.
And my name?
Now etched in gold.
Next was the Raven Anderson downfall.
It started like a whisper. A quiet tremor in the finance pages. Then a landslide.
One by one, their shell companies began to collapse—dominoes falling in sequence. Dummy corporations with fancy names like Valiant Imports, Citrine Solutions, Andora Ventures… all went up in smoke. Each one unraveling like a threadbare coat, revealing falsified audits, fake investors, and offshore accounts that were suddenly, very public.
Tomas traced it all like a digital bloodhound. “They weren’t even subtle,” he snorted, sipping his espresso. “These idiots really thought moving funds through a flower shop in the Caymans was peak sophistication.”
“What happened to the flower shop?” I asked, lazily flipping through a design catalog for the upcoming rebranding gala.
“It’s gone. Along with about six hundred in dirty cash. Frozen. Seized. Buried.”
My smile curled.
The real cherry on top, though, was Darren.
“I bought them all, as you instructed” he said casually over dinner at our penthouse, his cufflinks glittering in the candlelight. “The mansion. The yacht. The stocks they liquidated in desperation. The Andersons had to sell everything just to stay afloat for another week—and I was the anonymous buyer.”
My fork paused mid-air. “You bought everything?”
He leaned forward, brushed my knee beneath the table, and smirked. “Everything, darling. Even the Italian wine cellar collection they bragged about for a decade. Tomas made sure they were sold at a charity auction. I made the only bid.”
I laughed—long and loud. It felt so deliciously final.