Chapter 60 61
Inside the elevator, with the scent of that woman’s pungent perfume still attacking my nostrils like a chemical war crime, I texted Tomas with furious precision:
Me: Dig deeper on the mayor’s wife. Offshore account. Boy toy lawyer = Darren Johnson. It’s real, not a rumor. Find out when it started.
His response was instant, as if he’d been waiting like a loyal little raccoon by a garbage bin of secrets.
Tomas:
Copy. Gonna call Rico and DanDan now. I’ll use the magic words—‘premium gossip’.
I smirked and tucked my phone into the pocket of my fitted blazer just as the elevator pinged open. Rain clattered softly against the tall windows of the Kingsley Building lobby, painting the city in a soft watercolor of grays and blues. Classy weather for a classy little vengeance errand.
As I stepped out and into Darren Johnson’s law office reception, my heels clicked with authority. The receptionist—some fresh-faced intern with eyeliner far too ambitious for her face shape—looked up from her monitor.
“Good morning, Miss Hunter,” she chirped. “You can wait here. Mr. Johnson will be with you shortly.”
“Take your time,” I replied, settling onto one of the sleek, uncomfortable designer chairs like I owned the building and everyone’s soul inside it. I crossed one leg over the other, Cartier glinting subtly under the cuff of my dark sleeve.
Inside his office, Darren was pacing like a cornered lawyer, voice tight, almost cracking.
"I told you I’m handling it. No, don’t call the old man again—he’s not answering because he’s afraid. Yes, I know what they said, and I’m telling you, if you touch him before Friday—no, I will fix it—"
He moved like a frantic chess piece, dragging a hand through his already-disheveled hair, his designer tie hanging like a noose.
I leaned slightly, my ears straining toward the frosted glass partition. His voice rose.
"Listen to me, if he doesn't pay them back, they said they'll make an example of him in public. You know what that means."
My lips curled into a tiny smile.
Oh Darren. Darling. Daddy’s drowning in debt, your name’s wrapped around the mayor’s wife’s dirty money, and you’re juggling law, lust, and loan sharks. Delicious. Absolutely delicious.
I didn’t wait another second. My fingers flew over the screen again.
Me:
Handle Darren’s daddy’s debt collector. I want chaos. Send the gang to collect early. Maybe flip a table. Push his daddy to pay ASAP. Keep Darren busy—like headless-chicken kind of busy.
Tomas:
You want mild intimidation or the full "someone just threatened your kneecaps" vibe?
Me:
Medium spicy. I want stress, not a heart attack. Yet.
Tomas:
Got it. Rico’s cousin works with the loan guy’s crew. He’ll nudge things tonight. Want a video?
Me:
Of course. Add TikTok-style background music if you can.
I was still grinning when Darren's office door opened.
He spotted me with a flicker of surprise—or confusion—and then quickly masked it with professional courtesy. I smiled back, polite, calm, utterly detached. The suit helped. The new name helped. The sheer amount of emotional armor I wore under my skin helped most.
“Miss Hunter?” he said, walking toward me with the barest tremble in his jaw. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No worries,” I replied smoothly. “I hear busy men juggle many things.”
He gestured toward the inner office. I followed, steps poised and eyes neutral. Inside, the air reeked faintly of stress and peppermint oil. He offered me a seat, and I took it, legs crossed, back straight, like I was here to buy his soul at 40% off.
The pen I used to sign the document was smooth—too smooth, almost like it belonged to a CEO about to fire someone on a yacht. Darren explained the procedures with that overly rehearsed tone, like he was selling a timeshare in Monaco. Efficient agency coordination, seamless record transfer, database syncing—blah, blah, bureaucratic fluff wrapped in the scent of desperation.
He wanted a tip. Oh, I knew it. His eyes lingered just long enough after each phrase, like a street magician waiting for applause.
So I smiled, reached into my purse, and casually pulled out a crispy five-dollar bill. American. Green. Unfolded it with two fingers, smooth and slow.
“Thank you,” I said, without blinking. “This is just a tip. I settled my payment with your secretary.”
The flicker in his eyes—was it offense? Was it a bruise on his ego? I didn’t care. I handed the bill like royalty tossing coins to the town square. He took it like a man holding back a sneeze in public.
I took my new ID. Krystal Hunter. Again. Just like last time. Except this time, nobody here knew who I really was. They didn’t know about the blood, betrayal, or the billions that went missing. They didn’t know how the old me had died—and how I walked right back into the same building with a brand-new name and a vengeance checklist like a beauty queen's pageant agenda.
Darren was clueless.
The elevator ride down was silent and sweet. The kind of silence that makes revenge taste better.
Once in the lobby, I waved at the receptionist who gave me the kind of tight-lipped smile women give when they hate your shoes but want your outfit.
Then I walked across the street to the nearby café because honestly? I needed coffee. Not want. Need.
Rain was starting to drizzle lightly, misting the pavement and making the world smell like wet asphalt and corporate anxiety. I walked with my umbrella angled like a runway model who paid rent on time. I sat by the window, ordered a flat white with extra foam and two shots because today was rich in petty power, and I deserved caffeine strong enough to slap me into clarity.
I opened my phone and stared at the name on the ID again. Krystal Hunter.
Hunter, indeed.
Then, I sent Tomas a message: “Handled it. Got my new ID. He’s panicking. Daddy’s debts. I want drama. Send the collectors. Make it fast and ugly. Something his PR team will sweat about. Divert his attention—Mayor’s Wife is hiding behind his back. Time to shake the tree.”
Three dots. Then the reply.
“On it, Boss Lady. I got three guys who owe me a favor. One sells fake branded shoes, the other hacks CCTV, and the third once broke a kneecap over a karaoke mic fight. I’m assembling Avengers, basically.”
I grinned. Sipped my coffee. Felt the bitter and the sweet curl on my tongue.
Let them underestimate me. Let them think I’m some girl trying to file paperwork and change her name. Let them think this new life is just beginning.
They have no idea I’ve already lived through their betrayal once.
And this time?
I came with receipts, backup, and an army of broke nerds who only wanted WiFi and praise.
This city wasn't ready for Krystal Hunter.
But they will be. Oh, they will be.