All Chapters of The Billion-Dollar Payback Plan: She Woke Up Richer Than The: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

A few weeks later.It started with numbers.Small discrepancies. Transfers so clean, so quietly elegant, that even my personal accountant might’ve missed it if not for Tomas’s thoroughness.But I saw them. I saw them all.From shell accounts to a series of false consultancy fees, Darren had been taking from me—chipping away at the empire I built with blood and steel. The money was funneled slowly, week by week, month by month, to a Swiss account under a name tied to an offshore trust.His name.I stared at the screen, bile rising to my throat as I opened the final email. Sent from an encrypted line. A contract draft. A financial transfer authorization with my forged signature. The watermark of my company. My seal.The bastard planned to take everything.The man I shared my bed with. The man who kissed my bruises, who said, “You’re safe with me, Krystal,” while he carved a hole into my trust.My hands shook.I was supposed to confront him that night. I had rehearsed it already. I would

Two blocks later, I entered the coffee shop on the corner. All glass, brass, and whispers of jazz playing from discreet speakers. The scent of cinnamon and espresso clung to the air.The barista blinked when I walked in—soaked hoodie, dripping shoes, no umbrella—and then smiled politely.“I’ll have six lattes, two trays of mocha cakes, and... do you still have the vanilla cronuts?”“Yes, ma’am. Fresh batch just out.”“Box them.”Ten minutes later, I left with two large paper bags, steam curling up from the cups inside. I walked with purpose, ignoring the stares. No one expected a girl who looked like a drenched college dropout to walk out of that bank and then drop a 1 cent on pastries.Good.Let them wonder.Let them whisper.No flashy bags. No screaming logos. No selfies with cards or cups.Just quiet steps and whispered doom.This wasn’t about showing off.It was about making them sweat.One by one, the McLarens will be crumbling. Elias tried to kill me and failed. The Raven Anders

TOMAS POVIt 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

Monday morning. 7:02 a.m.I was already awake, perched by the kitchen island as Dessa plated a perfect French breakfast in front of me—fluffy scrambled eggs with herbs, a petite croissant still warm from the oven, and a delicate espresso with a twist of lemon on the side.“Do you want fruit, mademoiselle?” she asked, already reaching for the imported figs.“No need,” I said, brushing off imaginary crumbs from the counter. “I’m not here to be sweet today.”She gave me a look but said nothing, and I liked that about her.I took my time. Ate slowly. Thought carefully.Because today wasn’t just about visiting Darren Johnson.Today was about looking him in the eye and making sure he had no clue who I really was.By 9:00 a.m., I was dressed and ready.A tailored Dior suit, black with crisp white accents, hugged my frame like it had been stitched onto my soul. The blazer’s collar was sharp enough to cut a rumor in half. My slacks flowed like liquid elegance when I walked, and I’d chosen Prad

I sauntered over to Tomas and set the cakes beside him. “Your nerd wages come with glazed incentives,” I said dryly.“Thank you, oh merciful employer who pays me five dollars a month and lets me touch her Wi-Fi,” he said, mouth already full of strawberry cream. His eyes sparkled as he swiveled one monitor toward me. “Okay, boss. We’ve got a Venice problem.”I sat beside him, sipping my coffee like I wasn’t living for this.Apparently, sweet little Venice—our dear darling of overpriced perfumes and knockoff Louboutins—was drowning in debt. Her fashion line was in shambles, thanks to poor budgeting and her inability to pay actual designers. Tomas and his little crew of justice-obsessed IT goblins had discovered emails, DMs, and file trails that showed she’d been stealing from smaller fashion houses and bribing media outlets to give her fake press.I raised a brow. “Bribing the media? With what? Her recycled contour palettes?”Tomas chuckled, clicking away. “It gets better. Or worse. Dep