Chapter 77 78
Hours later, Darren staggered out of the casino, his wallet empty, his credit cards maxed, his bank account teetering near zero. His last $10—gone in the span of one night.
The city rain hit his face like cold slaps as he stumbled down the sidewalk, the neon casino sign buzzing mockingly behind him. His Italian leather shoes were soaked, his trousers clinging to his legs. His once-immaculate image of the city’s slickest lawyer was nothing but a joke now.
He pulled out his phone, hands shaking, scrolling through his contacts.
First call: his best friend, Mark.
“Mark—it’s Darren. Listen, I need a favor. Just a small loan—”
“Darren?” Mark’s voice was tight. Cold. “Don’t ever call me again. The papers are all over it. You’re poison. You’d drag me down with you.”
The line went dead.
Second call: his cousin, Elaine.
“Elaine, please. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I just—”
“Darren.” Her sigh was heavy, disgusted. “You didn’t even call when my father died. And now you’re calling me because you’re broke? Go to hell.”
Click.
Third call: his girlfriend.
She didn’t even pick up. Straight to voicemail. The message box was full.
Darren leaned against the soaked brick wall of some nameless bar and laughed bitterly. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, dripping into his eyes. His tailored suit looked like something pulled out of a gutter.
The great Darren Johnson, reduced to this.
But still—he wasn’t done. He couldn’t be.
Over the next three days, Darren clawed at every remaining piece of his old life.
He tried blackmailing an old client, threatening to leak details of an affair. The client laughed in his face—because the photos Darren had kept on file mysteriously vanished. Deleted. Wiped clean from his cloud. Tomas’ work, though Darren didn’t know it.
He reached out to the press, threatening lawsuits if they didn’t retract articles calling him corrupt. Instead, they doubled down—releasing screenshots of Swiss account transfers. Again, leaked by Krystal and Tomas.
He stormed into the Mayor’s office demanding a meeting, only to be escorted out by security. The Mayor’s wife had already filed a lawsuit against him for embezzlement.
By the fourth day, Darren hadn’t slept more than an hour. He paced his apartment like a caged animal, curtains drawn, drinking whatever was left in his liquor cabinet. The floor was littered with broken glass, unpaid bills, and yellow pads filled with angry scribbles.
Enemies. Traitors. Parasites.
The paranoia ate him alive. Every shadow felt like a spy. Every phone call felt like surveillance.
But worst of all—every mirror reflected not Darren Johnson, the lawyer, but a man hollowed out by greed and arrogance.
The Call He Never Wanted to Make
By the fifth day, Darren had one name left on his list.
He stared at it on his phone screen for a full hour, thumb hovering, pride fighting against desperation.
Krystal Hunter.
The woman he had dismissed to be just rich and stupid.. The woman he had underestimated. The woman who, for reasons he couldn’t name, lingered like a ghost in the edges of his mind these last weeks.
He told himself it was logical. She had money. She had connections. Maybe—just maybe—she’d be stupid enough to still have feelings for him.
He dialed.
The phone rang.
And then—
“Hello?” Her voice was soft, amused. Almost too calm.
Darren’s throat tightened. “Krystal. It’s… Darren.”
A pause. A silence so sharp it felt like it cut his skin.
Finally, she said, “Darren Johnson. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He swallowed hard. “I—I need a favor. Just a loan. Temporary. Things are… complicated. But I’ll pay you back, I swear. You know I’m good for it.”
Another pause. He could almost hear her smirk through the phone.
“Funny,” she said at last, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Everyone else seems to think you’re broke. Washed up. Poison.”
Darren’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Krystal, please. You don’t understand. My family turned on me. My clients—everyone. You’re the only one I can turn to.”
There was a long, deliberate silence. Then—
“Oh, Darren,” she whispered, her voice velvet and knives. “I understand more than you think.”
And the line went dead.
Darren stood frozen in the middle of his trashed apartment, phone pressed to his ear long after the call ended.
She hung up.
She hung up on him.
The last bridge he thought he had left—burned to ash.
His knees gave out, and he sank onto the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of his life. He pressed his hands to his face, the tears hot and unbidden. He hadn’t cried in years, not even at his mother’s funeral. But now—now it all spilled out.
The great Darren Johnson, broken and weeping in the dark.
And somewhere, in the shadows of the city, Krystal and Tomas watched the empire he built turn to dust—one whisper, one leak, one nudge at a time.
Darren thought he was paranoid. That shadows were watching him.
He was right.
Two hours.
That’s how long I sat there in the dark, staring at the blank screen of my phone, replaying her voice in my head.
Her laugh. Her dismissive tone.
It cut deeper than losing every dime at the casino.
I told myself she wouldn’t call back. Why would she? I was nothing now—stripped bare, disgraced, broke.
But then—
The phone lit up.
Her name.
My breath caught. My thumb shook as I swiped to answer.
“Krystal?”
A pause, then her voice—low, silky, dangerous. “Darren.”
I shut my eyes, relief flooding through me like a drug. “Thank God. I—”
“I thought about it,” she interrupted, smooth as wine. “I’ll loan you a hundred.”
One hundred. My chest tightened. To anyone else, it would be an insult. But right then? A hundred meant food. A hundred meant taxi rides. A hundred meant hope.
“That’s… that’s enough,” I rasped, swallowing my pride like broken glass. “Thank you, Krystal. I owe you.”
Her chuckle was soft, but it carried something sharp beneath it. “Yes, Darren. You do.”
The Invitation
I expected her to send the money through a transfer. A messenger. Something impersonal.
Instead, she said, “Meet me.”
“Meet… you?”
“There’s a restaurant on 5th Avenue. Exclusive. Private. You know the one.”
I did. Everyone did. It was the kind of place you couldn’t just walk into—you needed to be someone. Once, I had been someone. Now I wasn’t sure if I could even pass the valet without being laughed at.
“Why there?” I asked, suspicion crawling up my spine.
“Because, Darren,” she purred, “I like watching a man keep his promises face-to-face. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
And then—click.
The line went dead again.
I caught myself in the cracked mirror above the liquor cabinet.
My suit was wrinkled. My eyes sunken. I looked like a washed-up drunk, not a man about to walk into the most exclusive restaurant in the city.
But I couldn’t show up looking like this. Not to her.
I spent the next hour scrubbing myself raw in the shower, shaving with trembling hands, ironing my least-wrinkled shirt. The cufflinks didn’t shine like they used to, but they’d have to do.
By the time I stepped out, raincoat draped over my arm, it was already pouring outside. The city blurred in sheets of water, neon signs bleeding into puddles on the cracked sidewalks.
Each step to the restaurant felt heavier. My soaked leather shoes squeaked against the pavement. People passed me with umbrellas, glancing my way with that mix of recognition and contempt I had grown used to.
That’s Darren Johnson, I could almost hear them whisper. The lawyer who lost everything. The crook. The joke.
By the time I reached the restaurant, I was drenched, heart hammering.
The doorman eyed me up and down, and for a terrifying second I thought he’d turn me away. But then he glanced at the reservation list and stepped aside with a curt nod.
Inside, the world was warm golden light, polished marble, and the faint hum of a jazz piano. Men in tailored suits and women in gowns that cost more than my car dotted the room.
And then I saw her.
Krystal.
Sitting at a corner table like a queen in exile, wearing a simple black dress that somehow looked more powerful than any diamond necklace in the room. Her lips curled into that infuriating, knowing smile when her eyes met mine.
I swallowed hard and walked over.
“Krystal.”
“Darren.” Her voice was honey, but her gaze was knives. She gestured to the seat across from her. “Sit.”
I did. My hands shook slightly as I reached for the menu, but she snapped her fingers.
“No need. I’ve already ordered for us.”
The waiter appeared with wine—red, rich, expensive. She let him pour, then raised her glass.
“To debts,” she said softly.
I hesitated, then clinked mine against hers.
“To debts,” I muttered.
“So,” I said after a long swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. “About the money—”
Her smile widened. “So impatient.”
“I just—I need it. You don’t understand, Krystal. Everything’s gone. My accounts, my family, my clients. I don’t know who’s doing this to me, but I swear, if I find them—”
Her laugh cut me off. Sharp. Almost mocking.
“Oh, Darren,” she said, leaning forward. “Maybe it’s not about who’s doing this to you. Maybe it’s about the fact that you made so many enemies, anyone could’ve.”
I stiffened. My stomach twisted.
She tilted her head, studying me like I was a piece on her chessboard. “A hundred dollars. That’s what you asked for, yes? Enough to keep you alive.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
Her lips curved. “Good. Then consider tonight… an investment.”
I frowned. “Investment?”
She leaned back, sipping her wine like she had all the time in the world. “I’ll give you your hundred. But in return—you’ll owe me more than money.”
My pulse quickened.
“What do you mean?”
Her smile was slow, deliberate, dangerous.
“You’ll see.”
And just like that—Darren realized he hadn’t been saved.
He’d been snared.