Semua Bab The Billion-Dollar Payback Plan: She Woke Up Richer Than The: Bab 61 - Bab 70

Inside the elevator, with the scent of that woman’s pungent perfume still attacking my nostrils like a chemical war crime, I texted Tomas with furious precision:Me: Dig deeper on the mayor’s wife. Offshore account. Boy toy lawyer = Darren Johnson. It’s real, not a rumor. Find out when it started.His response was instant, as if he’d been waiting like a loyal little raccoon by a garbage bin of secrets.Tomas: Copy. Gonna call Rico and DanDan now. I’ll use the magic words—‘premium gossip’.I smirked and tucked my phone into the pocket of my fitted blazer just as the elevator pinged open. Rain clattered softly against the tall windows of the Kingsley Building lobby, painting the city in a soft watercolor of grays and blues. Classy weather for a classy little vengeance errand.As I stepped out and into Darren Johnson’s law office reception, my heels clicked with authority. The receptionist—some fresh-faced intern with eyeliner far too ambitious for her face shape—looked up from her moni

I wasn’t a bad guy. I wasn’t. I was just... tired. Tired of being broke, tired of cleaning up my father’s messes, tired of seeing my sister cry, tired of seeing my mother waste away, tired of knowing that even if I had a decent job and never slept, I’d still never make it.And then there was her.Krystal HunterShe came into my office like some millionaire’s muse, dressed to kill in that tailored suit, a Cartier watch flashing under the fluorescent lights, and a casual air like she’d just bought the building. She handed me five bucks—five goddamn dollars—like it was nothing. A tip.Who the hell gives a tip for a government-processed name change?And now she’s Krystal Hunter.The name itself sounded dangerous. Loaded. Familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.That five-dollar bill mocked me now in my wallet.How did she have so much money? She didn’t act rich, not flashy. No diamonds, no bodyguards, no attitude. But there was something about her, something terrifyingly calm. She smiled lik

That night, I couldn’t sleep.Not because of the usual nightmares—those had dulled into background noise by now. No, this time, it was reality that clung to my skin like static. The bitter truth that the McLarens were still sipping on thousand-dollar wine glasses in their mansion, oblivious to the fact that they were already drowning. Their family name was rotting from the inside out, their financial empire a few nudges away from collapse.And yet, they were still breathing easy.Still posing in gala photos.Still untouched.Still filthy rich.I could hear my heart pounding beneath my silk sheets. My room was dim, lit only by the faint city lights bleeding through the curtains of my penthouse. I stared at the ceiling, counting every breath, every crack in my chest.I should have felt satisfied.But I didn’t.Because hours before my car dropped into that cursed river—the day my old life died—Tomas had sent me photos that burned through me like acid.The first one?Darren and Venice. In

A few weeks later.Elias McLaren's Office – McLaren Cigar Inc.The once-imposing scent of aged tobacco and imported mahogany could no longer mask the stench of rot creeping into the McLaren name. The grand office, perched high above the city skyline, was dimly lit, the blinds drawn, and the walls echoing with tension.Elias McLaren paced like a caged animal, jaw clenched, fists tightening with every step. His once-pristine gray suit was wrinkled at the sleeves, his shirt collar loose. The silver Rolex on his wrist felt heavy—like a reminder of everything he was losing.Two international transactions—one in Los Angeles, the other in Milan—had just been sabotaged. His offshore account, the one no one was supposed to know about, was emptied overnight. Twenty-thousand dollars—gone. Clean. No trail. No recovery.“Damn it,” he growled, throwing a folder across the room. Papers flew, fluttering like dead birds before hitting the floor.Who?How?He’d paid hackers to protect that account. He’

The next few weeks was silent on the surface, but to men like Elias McLaren and Darren Johnson, I knew silence felt like a noose tightening around their necks. They were smart enough to sense the storm—but not smart enough to escape it.And so, the next step of my plan began.Darren Johnson—Mr. Golden Boy—had the mayor in his pocket. But like all powerful men, he had one fatal weakness: a woman who had him by the neck. Mrs. Valmorra. The Mayor’s wife. Beautiful, refined, a socialite with just enough intellect to play power games, but still vain and insecure enough to be manipulated. She dressed like wealth, moved like wealth, and breathed influence. Everyone wanted her attention. Including Darren. Especially Darren.Because he stole from her.So… I made it happen. An accidental meeting. Thoroughly planned.I had Tomas scout her favorite café—Le Corbeau, a Parisian-style coffeehouse nestled in a discreet luxury block in Manhattan. Not loud like a Starbucks, not cold like a finance towe