Chapter 62 63
I wasn’t a bad guy. I wasn’t. I was just... tired. Tired of being broke, tired of cleaning up my father’s messes, tired of seeing my sister cry, tired of seeing my mother waste away, tired of knowing that even if I had a decent job and never slept, I’d still never make it.
And then there was her.
Krystal Hunter
She came into my office like some millionaire’s muse, dressed to kill in that tailored suit, a Cartier watch flashing under the fluorescent lights, and a casual air like she’d just bought the building. She handed me five bucks—five goddamn dollars—like it was nothing. A tip.
Who the hell gives a tip for a government-processed name change?
And now she’s Krystal Hunter.
The name itself sounded dangerous. Loaded. Familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.
That five-dollar bill mocked me now in my wallet.
How did she have so much money? She didn’t act rich, not flashy. No diamonds, no bodyguards, no attitude. But there was something about her, something terrifyingly calm. She smiled like someone who’d already won the war while the rest of us were still bleeding out in the trenches.
I didn’t know who she really was.
But in that moment, standing between my broken father and a dark money decision—I realized I needed to survive. And I’d do whatever it took.
Even if it meant stealing from the devil herself.
By midnight.
I ended up transferring the money from the mayor’s offshore account. $8,000—just enough to cover the 5000 amount the debt collectors demanded. I wired it to the hospital’s finance office under my sister’s name, anonymously. The transaction window blinked for a second before confirming, and I just… stared.
Guilt? Maybe.
Fear? Absolutely.
But above all, I was desperate.
I closed my laptop and leaned back in the stiff hospital chair, the cold fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly like gnats inside my skull. My father was still unconscious, tubes shoved into his mouth and nose, his face barely recognizable beneath the bruises. His eyes were swollen shut. His breathing, mechanical.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was a stubborn bastard, but he didn’t deserve this.
Echo stood by the window, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek. He was the quiet one in the family, always the calm to my chaos—but now his silence was so loud it scraped against my nerves.
Elsa, our baby sister, sat curled in the corner chair, knees tucked under her chin, crying quietly into her sweatshirt sleeve. She was only 18, fresh out of high school, and already juggling hospital forms and emotional trauma like she was born for it.
And Mom… she was in the same building, just three floors up. Stage four. Weak and fading. How the hell had our family fallen apart so fast?
I rubbed my hands down my face. My skin felt hot, clammy. I hadn’t eaten since morning. My tie was loosened, shirt untucked, and my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating from the mayor’s number.
I ignored it.
God. That woman. She used to scare me. Now she just made me sick. The way she smiled like she owned the world. Like people were just tools to be rearranged on her game board.
And now I’d stolen from her.
I was no genius, but I knew what I’d just done could get me thrown in prison—or worse. She’d find out eventually. She always did.
I could already hear her voice: “Darling, why is my offshore balance $8,000 short?”
And I’d have to lie. Or deflect. Or disappear.
But I didn’t have the luxury of guilt or honor right now. I had a dying father, a sick mother, a sobbing sister, and a hospital bill that could bankrupt a small firm. Desperation doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t give you time to think things through. It just claws at your throat and drags you down until you either fight or drown.
And I wasn’t ready to drown.
I stood up and walked to the hallway, trying to catch a breath away from the antiseptic smell and the low murmurs of nurses. My lungs burned with restraint. Everything felt sterile, controlled—except for the chaos clawing at my chest.
The phone buzzed again in my pocket.
This time, the screen lit up with a name I hadn’t seen since I changed the contact info two months ago. A pathetic attempt to put emotional distance between me and my worst decisions.
Mayor’s Wifey.
Not her real name, obviously. She had a title longer than a train wreck and a closet full of designer apologies, but I preferred to remember her like this: a walking contradiction. Expensive perfume, red nails, wedding ring she never took off, and a hunger that could put twenty-somethings to shame.
Her message was short.
“Darling, let’s meet in the hotel. The usual.”
I read it twice, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I knew exactly what she meant. I wasn’t naive.
I was a man.
And she was a woman who didn’t waste time on subtlety.
She was in her fifties, sure—but age didn’t dull her edge. If anything, it made her sharper. She was a lion in bed and a viper outside it. She knew what she wanted and didn’t apologize for it.
And me? I gave it to her. For months. Willingly. Begrudgingly. Desperately.
I used to tell myself I was in control—that it was my choice. That I had the upper hand.
But now?
Now I was sure as hell gonna do whatever she wanted.
Because I just stole $8,000 from her husband’s offshore account.
I looked back down the hallway toward the hospital room. Elsa was still crying in the corner chair. Echo hadn’t moved. My dad was dying. My mom might not last the week. The hospital bills were predators circling what was left of our savings.
So yeah. I was going to that hotel.
I'd smile. I'd touch her the way she liked. I'd pretend I wasn’t breaking inside.
Because this time, it wasn’t about lust.
It was survival.
And if she ever found out what I did... God help me.
The hotel was one of those five-star places with velvet furniture and marble floors, trying so hard to pretend nothing seedy ever happened past its glass doors.
I knew better.
I moved through the lobby with my hands in my pockets, shoulders tense. The bellboy nodded politely. The receptionist didn’t even blink. This place had seen worse.
Room 1509. Top floor. She always booked the suite with a skyline view.
I knocked once.
The door swung open like she’d been waiting behind it.
She stood there in a silk robe the color of blood oranges, her hair curled and pinned, lipstick already smudged like she’d had a drink before I got there. Her eyes raked over me like I was late to an audition I didn’t sign up for.
“Darling,” she purred, stepping aside.
I walked in without a word, trying not to think about the $8,000 she didn’t know was missing. My palms were sweating. My stomach coiled.
The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in the golden hour light. A wine glass sat untouched on the coffee table. Expensive heels abandoned by the bed.
She shut the door with a click.
“I missed you,” she said, walking behind me. “You’ve been quiet lately. Ignoring me?”
“No,” I lied. My voice was steady, but barely.
She came close, her fingers ghosting up my spine. “Mmm. That guilt I hear? Or just nerves? You know I like it when you’re nervous.”
I turned around, jaw tight. “I had family stuff. I told you that.”
She tilted her head. “And yet, here you are.”
Because I needed the money. Because I’d crossed a line. Because I was trapped, and she knew it.
She smirked and stepped closer, invading my space the way she always did. She loved watching me flinch—loved the contradiction of a man twice her strength falling apart under her stare.
“I was beginning to think you didn’t want me anymore,” she whispered, running a manicured nail down my chest.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “But not all of you.”
She cupped my jaw suddenly, and for a second, I thought she knew. I thought the words would drop from her mouth like a guillotine: You stole from us, Darren. You stole from him.
But she didn’t.