Semua Bab The Billion-Dollar Payback Plan: She Woke Up Richer Than The: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The next morning, I woke up with one thing on my mind.Vengeance? No, not yet.A spa day? Tempting.But no—this was personal.I sat up in bed, my hair a glorious mess, and smiled to myself like a woman who had finally solved the riddle of the universe.“It’s time to pay off that soul-sucking, dignity-destroying, two-year culinary school debt.”Two years ago, I took an Associate’s Degree in Culinary Arts, busting my butt in kitchens, scraping together tips, and praying my student loans wouldn’t haunt me until the grave.The debt?$40,000.But now?Four. Freaking. Dollars.I grinned, teeth and all. “I’m gonna pay this like a queen buying mints at a gas station.”So I got dressed—my new Dior jeans, oversized Prada dark hoodie, Chanel runners, hair in a lazy bun (don’t judge me, it was a statement)—and walked into the administration building of my former college like I owned it. Because, financially speaking? I kinda did.The staff at the front desk barely looked up. I cleared my throat.

His eyes flicked up. “Hunter?”“Yes, my mother’s surname. As in I’m done being prey,” I replied sweetly.There was a pause.And then the man smiled. That slow, amused, all-knowing kind of smile.“I think that name suits you more than you know.”We spent the next 20 minutes going over legal clauses, ID verifications, and signature boxes, though I had a hard time focusing on anything other than the way his sleeves strained around his biceps every time he turned a page.“Will it be public?” I asked.“The name change?” He nodded. “Yes, but I can file under emotional distress and include a confidentiality clause if you're looking for some... discretion.”I leaned forward. “I’m not hiding anymore, Mr. Johnson. Let them see.”He tilted his head. “Then you’re going to enjoy what comes next.”As he gathered the papers, our fingers brushed. Just slightly.My stomach? Flipped like a pancake at brunch.He cleared his throat. “If you need help with anything else—property law, business contracts, r

The moment I entered Maison L’Argenté, heads turned. It was the kind of salon where appointments were booked three months in advance, where stylists wore all black and whispered like aesthetic assassins.The receptionist blinked at my expensive outfit and my massive diamond earrings—I know that look. She thought it was fake—until I handed her a penny. “Just a small tip for your sass.”She gasped like I just offered her a down payment on a jet. “Right this way, ma’am. Champagne? Caviar? Back massage while you wait?”“A glass of your driest champagne,” I replied. “And tell Ricardo I’m ready for my villain arc glow-up.”By the end of my four-hour transformation?Hair? Glossy, bouncing like I had a hair commercial contract.Nails? Glinting crimson daggers.Skin? So luminous it could trigger a skincare lawsuit.Mood? Peak villainess on a vacation from hell.The best part?I only spent two dimes.Yes, you heard that right. One-seven. Cents.Every stylist, masseuse, and glam artist I passed

Thirty minutes laterWe pulled up in front of Caffé Noire—a monument of caffeine and capitalism nestled in the upper district of Manhattan.The kind of place where:The coffee comes with edible gold flakes,Everyone pretends to write novels on MacBooks,And if your espresso isn’t hand-poured by a Colombian barista named Mateo, it’s considered offensive.Outside, Illana stood there—gawking.Literal jaw-drop.Neon hair clashing wildly with the rose-gold accents of the coffee shop window.When the Bentley’s suicide doors opened, Julian (my new driver/Greek god lookalike) stepped out to open mine.I emerged.In Givenchy, diamond-studded flats, oversized sunglasses, and that one perfect smirk that says “Yes, I’m better than you, and no, I won’t apologize.”Illana gasped so hard, her knockoff Balenciaga tote hit the pavement.“K-Krystal?! That’s your car?!”“Hmm?” I slid my sunglasses down slightly. “Oh, you mean one of them?”She nearly choked.Inside Caffé Noire, the air was scented with

Few weeks later, I did what most people in their wildest fever dreams wouldn’t even dare whisper out loud—I bought the entire freaking Central Park Tower.Yes. That tower. The one that kisses the clouds and makes millionaires feel like peasants. With Darren, my dangerously handsome lawyer, Lance the jawline-blessed real estate prince, and a few “corporate friends” introduced to me by my beloved bank manager, Mr. Alwin Jr. (who now bows when I enter the bank), the paperwork was signed, sealed, and delivered faster than a tax write-off.They looked at me like I had descended from some billionaire heaven with a gold-embossed checkbook and divine judgment. I saw one of them tear up. Probably thinking about his student loans and how I just bought a skyscraper with what amounted to three hundred thousand bucks.They started calling me Lady K.I didn’t stop them. Why would I?My black card now had its own seat at every meeting. Darren had one rule: If Krystal wants it, it’s happening. Even L