Chapter 56

TOMAS POV

It started with a name and a one-dollar bill that probably had more security protocols than a missile launch.

Darren Johnson.

To the world, he was the lawyer of legends. Power-dressed, clean-shaven, always photographed on the steps of marble courthouses with a subtle smirk and clients who looked like they owned half the world—and probably did.

But to me?

He was a glitch. Krystal never asked for something that didn’t matter. If she said dig, you didn’t bring a shovel. You brought a backhoe, night vision goggles, and six different proxies.

First stop: Johnson’s public profile. Clean. Too clean.

Second stop: private background networks, closed forums, and offshore data leaks. The man was a ghost in a world that thrived on traces.

And yet—money talked. I used the dollar Krystal gave me to unlock a server chain tied to six cold wallets and one blinking red file marked simply: "For Tomas."

Inside was a directive list. Fake identities. IP masks. Shadow routers. And—because she knew me—clearance to raid a digital archive that hadn’t been touched since 2012.

Krystal McLaren didn’t just plan revenge.

She anticipated it.

I stared at the first line of data I pulled:

Darren Johnson — connection flagged: Project Bleach, Johnson Holdings, Asset 149B-C.

And just like that, the “clean” lawyer had blood on his polished shoes.

By nightfall, I cracked the encrypted folder labeled “ Asset Transfers 2008-2012.”

And buried inside?

A single invoice. Legal fees. Signed by Darren Johnson.

For the illegal reallocation of a trust fund.

The man hadn’t just represented the thieves.

He was paid by them.

I messaged Krystal: “Got him. And you were right. He’s dirty. He’s yours.”

She didn’t reply right away. But when she did, it was just one word:

“Good.”

*****

KRYSTAL POV

While Tomas went full hacker-in-the-crypt, I did what any vengeful heiress with generational trauma and a bottomless bank account would do.

I went grocery shopping.

No, really. Like pushing a cart and arguing with an old lady over which brand of oat milk was creamier kind of shopping. I bought strawberries, meat, bread, fruits, chips, ramens, almond butter, two bottles of wine (one for me, one for my bathtub), and stood in line behind a teenage couple who couldn’t stop kissing over a bag of frozen peas.

It felt normal. Disgustingly normal. And yet, something about peeling the plastic off a discount rotisserie chicken reminded me I wasn’t the same girl who used to cry herself to sleep in an oversized mansion where no one noticed if she was hungry.

I was Krystal McLaren.

With a capital K, a secret empire, and a hatred for high-rise ostentation.

So when it came to finding a new place to live, I didn’t go for the kind of penthouse I used to buy—gleaming things with ceilings so high your soul echoed when you exhaled. No. I wanted quiet money. Whisper-rich. The kind that said, “I could ruin your bloodline, but I won’t because I’m focused on my skincare right now.”

The unit I fell in love with was on the 37th floor of an older building with hidden security features and a view of the harbor. Not the skyline. I wasn’t here for the spotlight. It had stone countertops, a sunken reading nook, and a fireplace that worked.

It whispered class. Not flash. Which was perfect.

The real cherry?

The parking spot that would soon hold my brand-new Red Range Rover SUV—freshly bought, sleek, powerful, and unsubtle in the best way. It wasn’t the fastest or the rarest, but it looked damn good when I put my sunglasses on and drove it past Ivy’s old gym.

I didn’t wave.

Didn’t need to.

Because no one—not Ivy, not MJ, not Darren Johnson in his clean little suits—knew what had happened in the past. Not the real story. Only I carried that timeline. The lies, the backroom deals, the betrayal, and the money they thought I never touched.

Let them believe I vanished. Let them think I broke.

Because while they gossiped over brunch and polished their reputations like fake diamonds, I was building a new kingdom—one grocery bag, server breach, and Range Rover at a time.

*****

The papers for the new penthouse and the Range Rover were still untouched, neatly clipped together on my real estate agent’s pristine mahogany desk.

It was the weekend.

And while other people were sipping champagne or sunbathing on private yachts, I was in my old apartment. The mattress still dipped where it always did, and the ceiling still had that mysterious crack that looked vaguely like a chicken.

The reggae music from the neighbor upstairs thumped through the walls, muffled and bass-heavy. A man with a mustache and a love for Bob Marley had lived above me for the past three years. He watered his plants at midnight, smoked questionable herbs, and once offered to fix my sink with a spatula. A character, sure. But harmless.

I leaned against the headboard, scrolling through Venice McLaren’s social media with the kind of cold interest that would make a therapist nervous.

Matching outfits. Fake philanthropy posts. Some quote about sisterhood that would’ve made me laugh if I wasn’t so numb to the irony. Venice—perfect, sharp-nosed, champagne-in-her-hand Venice—was posting like she had no ghosts behind her.

Good.

I wanted them comfortable. Complacent. Drunk on their filtered realities. Because I wasn’t coming in guns blazing. I was coming slow.

One by one.

That night, I told Tomas the plan in a lazy voice while finishing my takeout dumplings.

“I’m not giving up this apartment,” I said, balancing the sauce packet on my knee. “In fact… we’re turning it into our base. A full wipe. Gut the walls. Soundproofing. Secure servers. Disguised storage units. I want this place so clean no one will recognize it.”

He raised a brow, mid-chew of some overpriced sushi I’d ordered him. “Here? This shoebox?”

I tossed a crumpled napkin at his head. “This shoebox is ground zero. This is where I broke. So it’s only fair it’s also where I rebuild. And it’s got character. Also… rent-controlled.”

He laughed—actually laughed. That rare, boyish chuckle that used to show up once every blue moon when he still worked for me.

“I’ll buy the new servers this week,” he said, fingers flying across his temporary laptop. “High-speed dual nodes. I’ll grab three laptops and two burner phones for now. Satellite bounce. AES encryption. We’ll run ghosted packets through Iceland.”

I nodded approvingly and stood to dig through the kitchen drawer. I pulled out a single five-dollar bill and slid it across the table toward him.

He stared at it, then looked at me like I’d just handed him a golden ticket.

“This is for the equipment,” I said with a straight face. “I expect receipts.”

Tomas snorted. “You and your cursed money.”

“It’s not cursed. It’s strategic.”

“Same thing,” he muttered, folding the bill carefully into his wallet like it was holy scripture.

He didn’t know the truth, of course. No one did. Not even him. Not yet.

Not about the things Ivy said when she thought I was asleep.

Not about the time Venice sold out my mother’s memory for a magazine cover.

Not about the summer MJ and raven Anderson had lunch in secret three blocks away from the school the day I made his thesis.

No one knew how deep it ran—because I never told a soul.

And now, I wasn’t going to. I was going to let them live in their fake bubbles a little longer.

Tomas was pacing, already muttering about VPN speed and cooling systems. I watched him, the dim light catching on his glasses, his silhouette outlined in the old apartment’s gloom.

This place—the peeling walls, the rickety chair I never fixed, the sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor—was soon going to become a fortress. A war room. An archive of everything they did to me and thought they got away with.

Let them keep their pretty lives. Their gala invites. Their expensive lies.

Because while Tomas was building the system and Venice was posting selfies, I was drawing the map.

And we were still just at the beginning.