The Billion-Dollar Payback Plan: She Woke Up Richer Than The

Krystal Hunter.

That was the name that rang through the financial world like a thunderclap—a name whispered behind velvet boardroom doors and broadcast across billion-dollar screens. I was the woman they said could crash a market with a tweet, tank a currency with a breath, and make nations sweat with a single shift of my eyes. The mega billionaire. Single. Beautiful. Unbothered. Untouchable. VIP at every gala, legend in every stock index.

Yes, remember that name.

But before the luxury jets, the ice-cold champagne, the silence that followed my footsteps when I walked into a room...

Before I became Krystal Hunter, I was...

Well. Unfortunately, I was Krystal McLaren.

It all started with a lie dressed up as family. I was the fifth daughter of a middle-class business clan called the McLarens. From the outside, we were polished, polished, polished. Sunday brunches, private school tuition, polite smiles at charity auctions. Picture-perfect.

But open any door in that household and the illusion cracked.

Our family business was twofold.

One: Cigars—the legal kind. Imported, branded, overpriced, and packaged in mahogany boxes to impress other men at country clubs.

Two: Fake luxurious goods—the illegal kind. Knockoff watches, “designer” bags, black market cologne bottled to smell like success. Counterfeit glamor. Counterfeit values. Just like us.

Elias McLaren was the head of the family. Charming, calculating, and always cloaked in expensive smoke. My adoptive father, though I had no memory of ever being asked to choose that.

Norma McLaren, his wife—my adoptive mother—was less smoke, more venom. Sharp eyes, sharper tongue. She played the perfect hostess, but behind closed doors, she treated me like an inconvenience that refused to be thrown out.

And then there were my four “sisters”:

Venice, Era, MJ, and Ivy.

Each with their own brand of poison. And then there was me. The youngest. The unwanted. The outsider wearing their last name like a too-tight coat. The family photo prop no one wanted to pose beside.

To the rest of the world, we were a typical middle-aged, middle-class, mildly successful family.

But inside that house?

It was war and bullying! It was betrayal. It was quiet punishments and loud silences. It was Sunday brunches where I wasn’t allowed a second helping, “because we need to teach Krystal moderation.”

It was family vacations where I was cropped out of the photos. It was “don’t touch that, it’s not for you.”

It was hell.

You want to know why? Because I was not a real McLaren.

Here’s the truth they never wanted to talk about:

My real father was Ryan McLaren, Elias’s younger brother. He was never the golden child. That title belonged to Elias—the one who inherited the business sense, the house, the cigars, the charm. But Ryan? He was different. Kind, they said. Quiet. Almost invisible in comparison. He married for love, not leverage.

My real mother died giving birth to me. A twist of fate, or a curse—depends on who you ask.

And my father, Ryan?

He died in a car accident two hours later.

Two hours.

I hadn’t even opened my eyes properly, and I was already alone in the world. Ironic and such luck. Huh?

And that’s when Elias stepped in.

Noble? No.

Necessary? Oh, definitely.

According to what he told me, it was all written down in Ryan’s will—that Elias would adopt me and, in exchange, he’d receive everything Ryan left behind. His money. His share in the family estate. Whatever “dignity” a second son could leave behind.

I never read the will. I was a baby. A bargaining chip with a pulse. And by the time I could read, no one cared to show me the fine print. But Elias made it sound so simple:

“All your father’s assets were transferred to me, Krystal. That’s what the will said. But I took you in. I kept you safe.”

And to be fair… He didn’t treat me like trash. Not like the others did.

For Elias, I was a person. Not a daughter, not a stranger. Just someone to be fed, clothed, occasionally spoken to. He was cold, yes, but civil. He never hugged me. Never called me his. But he also never raised his hand. For him, I was just… there. A contract fulfilled. A soul housed.

But to the rest of the McLaren household? I was nothing. A stray. A stain. The afterthought in a family of polished frauds.

Venice liked to call me “the orphan” behind my back. Era treated me like a maid—snapping her fingers for things I never owed her. MJ took every opportunity to steal from me—small things that mattered more than she’d ever understand. Ivy, the baby before me, hated that she had to share her old toys and even her forgotten spot with someone like me. Her envy screamed louder than words.

And Norma? Oh, Norma McLaren was the queen of cruelty served with a smile. She never hit me on face—no, she was too elegant for that. But her every word was a dagger coated in sugar.

“Krystal, darling, it’s not your fault you don’t have our blood. Some people just don’t… blend in.”

I used to wonder what I had done wrong. Why no one wanted to love me. Why being born cost me everything.

When I was in high school, my so-called siblings brought me nothing but pain. Not just the cold shoulder, not just the petty insults—they made it their life’s mission to destroy me, bit by bit, day by day.

They didn’t just tease. They bullied. They broke me in ways I couldn’t explain without shaking.

They burned my school papers—essays I’d stayed up nights working on, drenched in ink and sweat, just to prove I could keep up. They didn’t care. They lit them up like it was a joke.

They burned my uniform. I still remember the smell of melting fabric, my anger and fear, the villainess laughter echoing in the backyard, and the ash falling like black snow. No one said a thing. I was a nobody. Not even Uncle Elias.

They once threw hot water on my back.

Not boiling—not really, but hot enough to blister.

I remember the searing pain, my scream, I begged, I remembered  the red welts across my shoulder blades, and the way I screamed so loud the neighbors came knocking.

But Norma said I slipped in the kitchen. And Elias? He didn’t even look up from his newspaper.