Chapter 61 62
DARREN’S POV
The morning started like any other—coffee lukewarm, shirt sleeves already wrinkled, and my assistant reminding me that the photocopier still wasn’t fixed. I was scanning through the usual list of appointments when my phone rang. It was my brother. Again.
“Before you hang up,” he said in lieu of a greeting, “listen—I need a favor.”
Here we go.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Is this about Dad?”
A sigh crackled over the speaker. “Yeah. Look, he’s in deep. Again.”
I leaned back in my chair. “How deep?”
“Deep enough that the loan sharks showed up at Mom’s. Deep enough that if we don’t cover something by the end of this month, they’ll start calling you. Or worse—your clients.”
I closed my eyes. My stomach twisted with that all-too-familiar feeling. My father—God bless him—was a man of big dreams and zero discipline. Betting on horses, investing in nonexistent startups, dabbling in crypto because his friend’s nephew said it was a sure thing. The man couldn’t manage a grocery list without accruing debt.
And now, his ghosts were knocking on my office door.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered, because what else could I say? I hung up and tossed the phone onto my desk. The day was already spiraling, and it wasn’t even 9:30.
That’s when she walked in.
She didn’t glide or stumble. She arrived.
Her presence hit the room like a scented breeze and a slap at the same time—clean, confident, unreadable. Long coat, tailored slacks, eyes that didn’t blink too often, and a walk that said I’ve been places you can’t afford.
“Mr. Darren Johnson?” she asked with that detached politeness that well-paying clients use when they want something done fast and right.
“Good morning, Ms Hunter,” I said, standing, extending my hand. She didn’t shake it. Just nodded and sat down like she owned the leather chair, the desk, the building.
I flipped through the documents she’d already pre-filled, perfectly in order. Everything was spotless. Efficient. No mess. No hesitation.
I went into my practiced speech about the procedures—how long it would take to reflect in the government records, how the central agency liaised with satellite offices to update her ID, passport, and online records. Her expression never changed. Not once.
And then she handed over after she signed it all, everything with an old name that no longer mattered to her—and watched me process the change like she was ticking off a list.
The thing was… it wasn’t just her composure.
It was how fast she wanted this done. And how fast I got it done. Agencies that usually took three weeks were calling me back within hours. My secretary said she didn’t even pull strings; it was like the system bent over backward just because this woman typed her name on a form.
When I gave her the new ID card—clean, fresh, her new name bold and black and official—she took it like she was accepting a gift she already owned.
And then she pulled out a five-dollar bill.
Just… five. Crisp. Folded in half.
She set it gently on the desk like it was a holy offering.
“Thank you,” she said, without looking at me. “This is just a tip. I settled my payment with your secretary.”
Then she smiled. Briefly. Not warm. Not cold. Just that kind of smile a lion might give before turning away from a meal it already ate.
And walked out.
I just sat there, staring at the five-dollar bill like it was a slap in origami form.
Five dollars?
I mean, who does that?
You don't dress like that, move like that, have government offices dancing like puppets on strings—and tip five dollars.
I didn’t know whether to be offended… or terrified.
Was it a joke? A flex? Some sort of power play?
I checked her paperwork again. Everything was legal. Perfect, actually.
Hunter. What kind of name was that? Elegant. Sharp. I Googled her in passing, but the usual notable came up except a bland real estate license from another city. Normal social media footprint. No scandal. No trail.
But something didn’t sit right.
I’ve been in this business for years, and I know when someone is just another girl changing her name because of a divorce or debt.
Krystal Hunter wasn’t running away from something.
She was stepping into something.
I sat back in my chair, still clutching the five-dollar bill. It felt heavier than it should. Like a coin from some ancient curse.
Was she rich? Was she dangerous? Was she connected?
I didn’t know.
But as I stared out the window and saw her crossing the street toward the café, coat swaying, heels clicking, head high—I realized something that chilled me far more than the call from my brother ever could.
This woman… had walked into my office like she’d done it before.
And somehow, I got the feeling that I had no idea just how deeply I’d underestimated her.
That afternoon.
It started with a phone call I never wanted to answer.
"Bro... Dad's been hit. Some gang—real bad. He's in the ICU."
My younger brother's voice shook through the line like it carried the tremors of the blows that landed on our father's body. I froze for a second, the cold edge of panic slicing through my chest. I barely managed a curse under my breath before grabbing my keys.
Traffic was trash, the sky outside gray and moody, fitting for the way my stomach churned with every red light. My phone buzzed nonstop—updates from Echo, half-coherent texts from Elsa, my youngest sister and one from the hospital nurse asking me to come as soon as possible.
I walked into the ER like a man stepping into the unknown. The sterile lighting only made the bloodstains on my father’s shirt more vivid. His face was a pulp of bruises and tubes; the machines beeped in rhythm with my growing dread.
“What the hell happened?” I growled.
Echo ran a hand through his hair. “Debt collectors. But not the usual kind. These guys were brutal. Said he owed them five thousand.”
“What?!” My voice echoed off the hallway tiles.
“Dad tried to stall, you know how he is. They weren’t buying it anymore. Said they’d ‘make an example’ if he didn’t pay today. So they did.”
I turned toward the ICU window where our old man lay unconscious, hooked up to machines that were probably billing us by the second. My little sister Elsa sat nearby, sobbing quietly, knees pulled to her chest like she was trying to make herself disappear. And as if fate wasn’t sick enough, Mom was in another wing, battling late-stage cancer, barely hanging on herself.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. My hands were shaking.
I didn’t have fifteen grand.
Hell, I didn’t have five.
Oh I have five from Krystal. Damn it!
My bank account had $1.29 in checking. Credit cards maxed. Savings? Non-existent. My only car was a beat-up Mazda because I sold my Ferrari. I was praying wouldn’t die this winter. I was already two months behind on my apartment rent. My job as a lawyer was more than enough before my mother got sick but now. I had nothing.
But—
Then I remembered.
The offshore account.
That one damn thing.
The mayor’s wife had funneled some dirty money through my help. I was supposed to get rid of it eventually, break it into ghost transactions, spread it out through shell accounts so no one could trace it back to her. But I didn’t. Not yet. The money was sitting there like a loaded gun—untouched, cold, and dangerous.
It was nearly $20,000.
Not mine. Not technically.
But what if I just… borrowed a little? Paid off the debt collectors? Saved Dad’s life? Pay mother’s bill for a year?
It’s not like she’d ever find out. And even if she did—she couldn’t exactly go to the cops and say, “My illegal slush fund is being misused.”
I paced outside the ICU, heart pounding.