REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 36: Chapter 36

“Ugh…” I groaned, sitting up slowly. Big mistake. The world tilted.
Jhing Jhing was sprawled across the couch like a broken action figure, one leg thrown over the armrest, her dress riding up halfway to her ribs. She had a feather boa around her neck like a battle trophy and one eyelash hanging on for dear life. Her phone buzzed under her thigh.
Mylene? Poor woman was curled in fetal position under the dining table, murmuring something that sounded like, “Never trust a man with a fake nose and blue necktie…”
Wine bottles were scattered like battlefield casualties. Empty. Some half-full. One still sitting in the ice bucket we clearly forgot about halfway through our impromptu celebration. Lipstick marks on every glass, every corner, and somehow—somehow—one kiss print on the television screen.
And then… the audience.
Seven children. Our children. Three of mine, two of Jhing Jhing and a twin of Mylene. All in pink pajamas. Standing in judgmental silence.
Maya was glaring at me, her arms crossed and a dishtowel on her shoulder like a disapproving aunt. “Mom, you look like you wrestled a raccoon. And lost.”
Jaya, my baby, was latched onto my boob like she was recharging her soul. Didn’t care about my sins, just wanted her breakfast.
Aliya? She was sitting on the floor, picking chips off the carpet like it was treasure. "Mmm, salty!"
Jhing Jhing’s kids were whispering to each other, holding up Mylene’s phone and snapping photos of the “crime scene” like little detectives.
Mylene’s twins? Angels. Except for the part where they tied socks around the dog’s ears and declared him King of Hangover Hill.
Three babysitters stood in the kitchen, dressed in crisp uniforms, flipping pancakes and pouring orange juice with faces as blank and calm as assassins. They said nothing. Not a single word. But the judgment… oh, it hung in the air like cigar smoke. Thick. Inescapable.
"Good morning, ma'am," one of them said, her tone neutral. “Would you like some aspirin with your scrambled eggs?”
“Yes,” I croaked, pulling a Dorito out of my bra. “And maybe a new liver.”
“Coming right up.”
Mylene rolled out from under the table with a groan. “Why does my tongue taste like rotten durian and floor cleaner?”
Jhing Jhing lifted her head from the couch, blinking at the ceiling. “Did we... won last night?”
I blinked, trying to recall. Oh yes. We did win. One million pounds, a scandal, and Alec’s frozen, love-struck face across the poker table. Oh, we won.
“I think,” I said slowly, cradling Jaya with one arm, “we might have broken the entire system.”
Maya sighed, holding up a newspaper that one of the babysitters had neatly folded on the kitchen counter. The headline screamed:
“Mystery Woman Strikes Again: High Stakes, High Drama, and a Slap Heard Across the Casino.”
There was a blurry photo of me standing triumphant with chips in hand, Alec in the background looking like he’d seen a ghost and fallen in love at the same time.
“Explain,” Maya said, deadpan.
“I’m... investing,” I said. “In your future.”
Jhing Jhing laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch. Mylene groaned. “We need to burn these dresses. And my heels. And maybe our fingerprints.”
Aliya climbed up beside me and offered me a soggy chip. “You are a good mommy.”
I nearly cried.
Me the assassin, the kingpin. She called me good.
"Okay," I said, hugging both Jaya and Aliya tightly, "no more wine-fueled revenge poker nights."
Everyone looked at me.
I paused.
“…on weekdays,” I added.
The babysitter slid a plate of eggs and aspirin in front of me. The smell almost killed me. But damn, victory had never tasted so greasy and glorious.
And as the girls giggled and the kids slowly began to run around in their usual chaotic fashion, I realized something powerful…
This mess? This was mine. And I was winning.
One scandal at a time.
The next morning, the city was still wet with last night’s rain, the streets shimmering like they'd been scrubbed clean of sin. The air was crisp, sharp in a way that felt like it could slice through all the mistakes of the night before. I walked up the stairs to Jhing Jhing’s flat with purpose, a warm cup of overpriced matcha in one hand and a sealed Manila envelope in the other. Inside was three hundred thousand pounds. Neatly packed. Freshly transferred. Clean as a whistle.
I knocked.
Twice.
Loud enough to wake the dead, but soft enough not to startle her kids.
The door creaked open after a few seconds, revealing a wild-haired, half-awake Jhing in her pink panda pajamas, blinking at me like I’d risen from a coffin.
“Cathy—what the hell? It’s barely eight and I swear if you came to borrow my last pancake, I will throw you off the—”
I handed her the envelope.