Chapter 4

Two days later, still nursing my pride and bruised soul alone, I found myself wandering through Midtown Manhattan, dressed in secondhand black slacks, a wrinkled button-up, and sneakers that had definitely seen better days. My résumé was clutched in one hand, damp from my sweaty palms and the misty morning drizzle, while my other hand flicked through job listings on my cracked phone screen.

No luck. Every kitchen was either “not hiring,” “come back next week,” or ghosted me with silence the moment they saw the McLaren name under “previous employer.”

I was tired. Hungry. My feet were aching. And hope? It was on life support.

So when I passed a small, dimly-lit convenience store tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, I thought, Screw it. I stepped inside, grabbed a lukewarm bottle of soda, and stood in line behind a man yelling about expired coupons.

And then I saw it. The lottery machine. The digital screen flickered with the words:

“JACKPOT: $10,000,000 — Play Today!”

I snorted out loud. “Ten million? Right. As if.” But then… I hesitated. Something in me whispered, You’ve tried everything else. Why not this?

So I bought a ticket. A single one. $2. My last bit of spare cash.

I even rolled my eyes at myself as I shoved it in my pocket and left. “Congratulations, Krystal,” I muttered sarcastically to the traffic, “You’re now officially desperate and delusional.”

But fate—that twisted, dramatic mistress—wasn’t done with me.

The next morning, I woke up to my alarm, groggy, eyes barely open, and pulled out my phone. Out of desperation, I typed the numbers from my ticket into the lottery results page.

And froze. I stared. I refreshed.

Again.

And again. I had won. Ten. Million. Freaking. Dollars.

At first, I thought it was a glitch. A scam. A joke. I double-checked the date. I triple-checked the numbers. I held the ticket in my trembling hands, staring at it like it might evaporate. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought I’d pass out.

Then I screamed. I jumped. I danced around my tiny apartment in socks and pajamas. I laughed. I cried. I hugged my broken toaster. I was so happy I forgot what sadness even felt like.

For the first time in my miserable, discarded, beat-down life… I won. I didn’t earn it, I didn’t steal it—I won.

But the high didn’t last. It never does. Because about fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Loud. Sharp. Familiar.

I opened it—still in my euphoria haze, holding the ticket in my hand—only for my entire world to shatter in a split second.

It was Elias. My uncle. My adopted father. His face was red with fury, and before I could even say a word—

He slapped me.

Hard. The kind of slap that didn’t just sting your skin but cracked your spirit. My head snapped to the side, and I staggered, stunned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he barked. “How dare you shame the McLaren name like that! Making a scene in front of VIPs? Humiliating Ivy at that restaurant?”

I blinked. “What? You—what are you talking about?! They humiliated me! I lost my job because of them!”

“Ivy said you were rude. Disrespectful. You embarrassed her in front of the investors.”

“Ivy lied!” I yelled. “You weren’t even there, father!”

“Don't call me father! I am not your father!”

“But they—”

He didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t.

Because Norma’s poison ran deep, and Ivy—perfect little Ivy—had clearly cooked up one hell of a story. I didn’t know what she told him, but he was livid.

His fists were clenched, his eyes wild.

And then—

He saw the ticket in my hand.

His gaze dropped. His voice stopped. A silence fell between us. But not the peaceful kind—the dangerous kind. The kind of silence before a bomb explodes.

“What’s that?” he asked quietly. Too quietly.

My heart skipped. “It’s nothing,” I said, trying to fold it. “Just—just a receipt.”

But it was too late. He snatched it before I could hide it.

His hands trembled as he read the words.

Eyes widened. Lips parted. Breath hitched.

“You… You won the lottery?”

My stomach sank. “That’s mine,” I said.

His lips curled into a smile I’ll never forget.

A greedy, wolfish, hungry smile.

“No, Krystal. That belongs to this family. To me.”

And then all hell broke loose.

I grabbed the ticket.

He grabbed me.

We fought—really fought. It wasn’t pushing and shouting—it was raw, violent, ugly.

He threw me against the wall. I scratched his arm. He pulled my hair. I punched him in the chest. I wouldn’t let go of that ticket.

Even as my face swelled, even as I tasted blood, even as he slammed my head against the floor and screamed, “YOU OWE ME THIS!”

I didn’t let go.

When I saw the madness in his eyes, the foaming rage, I knew he’d never let me keep it.

So in a final desperate act—

I shoved the ticket into my mouth and swallowed.

He lost it. He lost his damn mind. “YOU BITCH!” he roared.

And then… he grabbed a knife from my tiny kitchen.

One of mine. The ones I loved. The ones I used to make steak.

And he stabbed me.

Once. Twice. Three times.

I screamed. I bled. The walls caught my blood like it was red paint, streaking down like tears from God.

He tore through drawers, looking for something—anything—that could save the ticket. When he realized it was gone, destroyed, soaked in stomach acid and blood, he turned on me again.

He kicked me. Hard. In the ribs. In the face. Then another stab—through my side. I was choking on pain. Losing consciousness.

The last thing I saw was his face twisted in pure rage. Not grief. Not horror. Just rage that he didn’t get his ten million dollars.

And then—

Darkness.