Chapter 65 66
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of the usual nightmares—those had dulled into background noise by now. No, this time, it was reality that clung to my skin like static. The bitter truth that the McLarens were still sipping on thousand-dollar wine glasses in their mansion, oblivious to the fact that they were already drowning. Their family name was rotting from the inside out, their financial empire a few nudges away from collapse.
And yet, they were still breathing easy.
Still posing in gala photos.
Still untouched.
Still filthy rich.
I could hear my heart pounding beneath my silk sheets. My room was dim, lit only by the faint city lights bleeding through the curtains of my penthouse. I stared at the ceiling, counting every breath, every crack in my chest.
I should have felt satisfied.
But I didn’t.
Because hours before my car dropped into that cursed river—the day my old life died—Tomas had sent me photos that burned through me like acid.
The first one?
Darren and Venice. In a cozy little café that looked too damn comfortable, like betrayal was just another flavor in their cappuccino. Venice had that smug tilt to her mouth, like she was doing something noble. And Darren—he was leaning forward, eyes narrow, asking where I got the money.
Curiosity. Not concern. Not regret. Not even a flicker of guilt.
Then another photo came in.
Darren again—but this time with Elias.
Same face. Same intensity. Just a different damn location. This time a restaurant, the kind with warm lighting and linen napkins. Elias was turned slightly away from the camera, but I knew him. Knew that arrogant slouch, that mocking smirk. They were talking. About me. About my money. About how.
And that was the trigger.
Not just the betrayal, but the disbelief. The nerve. They were so used to me being small, broke, and useful that the thought of me rising from the ashes confused the hell out of them. So much so that they were digging behind my back, desperate to find out how the dead girl came back with teeth.
The audacity made me sick.
So, I lay there, cold and still, arms crossed over my chest like a corpse laid to rest in silk sheets, and thought about how far I’d come. And how much farther I could go.
They didn’t know the fire they started when they threw me away like trash. Darren didn’t know that the girl he used, the girl he helped ruin, the girl he left to die in that river… was the one now watching him fumble in someone else’s bed, stealing money with hands that used to hold mine.
He didn’t know that the same girl was about to ruin him financially, socially, and politically.
Piece by piece. Slowly. Deliberately.
Because revenge wasn’t a sprint. It was a slow burn. A symphony of suffering. And I had the patience for it now.
And maybe—
Just maybe—
Somewhere deep in the wreckage of my heart, I still loved him.
Which made all of this even more twisted. Because I would destroy him.
And mourn him at the same time. Just like he once did to me.
The next morning, I wore power like a second skin.
Sharp heels. Designer sunglasses. A black blazer that cost more than what Venice paid her entire design team. My lips were painted in war red—the kind that dared anyone to challenge me—and my hair was tied up in a bun so tight it could slice egos on sight.
Tomas had texted me before I even finished my coffee.
VENICE IS PANICKING.
WENT TO 2 BANKS.
ASKING FOR LOANS.
HER CREDIT’S TRASH.
LOL.
I smirked, took a sip of my imported Italian roast, and called my driver.
If Venice McLaren wanted to keep playing fashion CEO, she’d have to do it without the luxury of a bailout.
Because today? I was going to the bank.
Not to withdraw.
But to threaten.
The lobby of the Sterling & Gray Bank gleamed with understated wealth. Marble floors, glass walls, gold accents—not flashy, but smug. The kind of place that didn’t hand out money to just anyone. The kind of place that valued discretion and legacy.
And me?
I was their legacy client now.
"Good morning, Miss Hunter," the receptionist said quickly, standing as I passed. She knew better than to delay me with nonsense like waiting or coffee. "Mr. Alwin Jr. is waiting for you."
He should be.
The man practically kissed my hand the last time I updated my account and submitted my legal documentation proving the name change.
I walked into the manager’s office like I owned the building—and in some ironic, vengeful way, I did. My investments paid for the air conditioning in that lobby. My interest alone could cover three decades of their payroll.
“Miss Krystal,” Mr. Alwin Jr. stood immediately, all polished smile and polished shoes. “Always a pleasure.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said coolly, sitting down without being asked. “I won’t take much of your time today.”
“Oh—of course. Anything you need. Are we adjusting your offshore portfolios or—?”
“I’m here to talk about who gets access to this bank’s money.”
He blinked. “I… see?”
“No. You don’t,” I interrupted, folding my legs and leaning forward. “Listen carefully, Alwin. I don’t want any member of the McLaren family to be granted loans. Not personal, not business, not even a goddamn credit increase. Not one dollar.”
He stammered. “Miss McLaren—Krystal—I, ah, that’s not usually how we manage loan rejections—”
“I know how it works,” I said, voice steady. “And you know how I work. So here’s what we’ll do. If I even hear a whisper that you or anyone under Sterling & Gray has approved financing for anyone with a McLaren name, maiden name, shell company, or married alias…”
I slid the black folder onto his desk.
Inside?
A list of accounts.
All mine.
All worth a combined ten million dollars.
“I will pull everything out.”
Alwin swallowed hard, his fingers twitching slightly as he looked at the figures.
"And I'll take my portfolio to your competitor across the street—Barrow's International. They’ve been wooing me for months anyway. But I didn’t want to leave my favorite banker behind.”
My smile was razor-sharp.
“This is just… motivation.”
He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and nodded quickly. “Understood. No McLarens. No loans. Nothing will be approved. I’ll alert the internal teams.”
“Good boy.”
I stood and picked up my purse. “Oh. And if Venice shows up? Tell her you’re doing someone a favor. I want her to know who slammed the door in her face.”