Chapter 84 85
Raven’s POV
Anderson HQ was no calmer.
The assassin had delivered proof — photos of Darren’s trashed apartment, the threats to his family. Raven should have been satisfied. Should have felt vindicated.
But he wasn’t.
He wanted more.
He wanted Darren to suffer in ways money couldn’t measure. He wanted him humiliated, broken in public, crawling on his knees begging for forgiveness he would never get.
Raven slammed a fist against his desk. “If that coward thinks hiding behind McLaren’s daughter will save him, he’s even dumber than I thought.”
The thought of Krystal twisted his insides in a different way. Once, she’d been his — the girl who believed in him, who had stitched pieces of his pride back together. And now she was siding with Darren Johnson? Helping him?
No.
He’d ruin Darren, and when the time was right, he’d drag Krystal down with him.
“Tell the assassin I want it public,” Raven ordered one of his men. “No more shadows. I want everyone to see what happens when you cross an Anderson.”
His grin was sharp, vicious. “And if Darren thinks his little heiress will protect him, I’ll make sure she’s watching when he bleeds.”
Krystal’s POV
And from her penthouse balcony, high above the city, Krystal watched both men move their pieces exactly where she wanted them.
Darren, clinging to her like a drowning man to driftwood, believing every smile, every gentle word, every staged act of comfort.
Raven, blinded by his rage, sharpening his knives and setting fire to his own empire in the name of revenge.
It was all so… predictable.
She leaned against the railing, silk robe fluttering in the breeze, Tomas beside her with updates glowing on his tablet.
“Darren thinks you’ve saved him,” Tomas murmured.
Krystal’s lips curved. “Good. The deeper he believes that, the harder he’ll fall when I decide to let go.”
“And Raven?”
Her smile sharpened. “Raven’s already burning. All I have to do is feed him a little more fuel.”
She sipped her wine, eyes glittering against the Manhattan skyline.
The assassin was in play. The rivals were tearing each other apart. And she?
She was the queen in the stands, sipping vintage champagne while her gladiators bled for her amusement.
The funny thing about men like Darren Johnson?
They were so easy to tame once you figured out which leash to use.
He thought he was bold, untouchable, street-smart. But all it took was a warm laugh at the right moment, a croissant at dawn, a hand brushing against his when he least expected it… and suddenly the man who once kept everyone at arm’s length was letting me inside his world.
Or at least, the world he thought he had.
At breakfast, he told me stories — half-bragging, half-confessing — about deals he’d made, shortcuts he’d taken. He leaned in when I teased him, as if my laughter was worth more than the millions he claimed to juggle.
And every detail, every slip of information, I filed away.
By nightfall, when he finally dozed on my couch after yet another “strategy session,” Tomas and I were already pulling threads. Darren thought he was showing me his strength. In reality, he was handing me every blueprint to dismantle him.
The trick, of course, was balance.
I couldn’t let Darren suspect I was taking notes. Couldn’t let Raven realize the crumbs Tomas was feeding him came from my kitchen.
So I played the part. Sweet, indulgent, endlessly curious. I let Darren think I was fascinated by his war stories, impressed by his daring. Sometimes, I even widened my eyes just enough to let him believe I was afraid — and that his strength was the only thing keeping me safe.
Men ate that up like dessert.
The Call with Raven
Later, while Darren showered in the guest room, I slipped into my study and dialed a number Tomas had prepared. It was routed three times through overseas towers, then through an encrypted line.
“Ms. Hunter,” Raven’s voice came, thick with rage and exhaustion. He didn’t know it was me — not really. Tomas made sure of that. “What do you have for me?”
I smiled into the receiver, voice pitched lower, professional. “Our mutual friend Darren has been careless. Offshore accounts. A private ledger he keeps at his law firm. And…” I let the pause linger, just enough to prick his pride, “…his little stash house in Queens.”
Raven cursed under his breath. “So the bastard thinks he can play me. Good. Let him.”
“Careful,” I murmured, pressing the dagger in. “He’s getting help. Someone with deep pockets is bankrolling him.”
That was the part I loved most. Watching Raven’s silence stretch, heavy with suspicion, anger, and paranoia.
He was already imagining Darren with allies. Maybe imagining me as his ally.
Oh, the irony.
When I hung up, Tomas gave me a sideways look. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
I swirled the wine in my glass, lips curling. “I’m just giving them both what they want. Darren wants to believe he’s winning me. Raven wants to believe he’s destroying Darren. Why would I deny either of them the pleasure?”
Back to Darren
Later that night, Darren padded into the living room, hair still damp, white shirt clinging to him in a way that would have made any other woman blush.
I didn’t.
I smiled. Soft. Carefree. Exactly what he needed.
“You’re staring,” he teased, trying for lightness but betraying the shadows in his eyes.
I tilted my head. “Maybe I like what I see.”
His breath caught — just for a second. And in that second, I knew.
He was mine.
Already slipping, already falling. Already convinced that the heiress in silk pajamas was the only person in Manhattan who cared if he lived or died.
And when he finally whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Krystal,” I hid my smirk with a sip of wine.
Because the truth was simple:
He wouldn’t survive me.
And Raven wouldn’t survive him.
And when the dust cleared, when the city had chosen its victor, I’d be the only one left standing — rich, free, and finally avenged.