REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 55: Chapter 55

Meanwhile: Alec’s Office
His office still smelled faintly of broken glass and gun oil.
Mick entered quietly. “Sir. Catherine was spotted again. This time… at Café Très Pretensieux. She—she was with friends.”
Alec didn’t even look up. “Was she smoking?”
“No.”
“Was she laughing?”
“Yes. Loudly.”
Alec's eye twitched. He opened a drawer. Pulled out a photo of Leon. The same smirk. The same eyes. The same “you-thought-you-won-but-no” aura.
He dropped the photo. “No one’s that happy,” he muttered.
No one unless they were plotting something.
And Catherine? She was definitely plotting something.
The next day, it was the kind of gloomy afternoon that felt like the world needed a nap. Thick gray clouds hung over the sky like soggy cotton balls, and the breeze tasted faintly of impending drama and someone’s burnt lasagna from the apartment above.
The Kore@n Café was stupidly luxurious. Outdoor seating lined with silk-cushioned chairs, each table adorned with minimalist glass vases holding flowers that screamed, “We don’t grow in this climate, we’re imported.” A violinist in the corner played a sad indie version of “Toxic” by Britney Spears. A couple of influencers nearby were pretending to drink coffee for pictures they’d later caption “morning peace.”
And then we arrived.
Us: A parade of chaos in Target mom fits and murder-level makeup.
Me, Jhing-Jhing, and Mylene marched in like we owned the world—or were about to destroy it with glitter and unresolved trauma. Jaya skipped beside me in a violet sort tutu, Ivy clutched a bag of rainbow marshmallows like it was her emotional support pet, and the girls? They were ready.
The cafe hummed with espresso machines, clinking porcelain, and the sounds of people pretending to work on their novels. A barista with a nose ring shaped like a lightning bolt was aggressively frothing milk like it had wronged his ancestors. Someone was arguing on a podcast in the corner. I was seated in the middle of this latte-scented storm, sipping bitterness and plotting like the momma warlord I had become.
Alec was already seated at a far table, pretending not to be watching.
Too bad his eyes never left us.
Earlier, I called Joe Smith and asked if he found something new. And yes, he told me that Alec Fucking Darrow was here, fake drinking a huge white frappuccino espresso.
We ordered and sat at the next empty table like we owned the place. I held my usual overpriced latte like it was a wine glass. Dainty. Elegant. A proper British woman who definitely didn’t used to smuggle venom in heel compartments and blow up docks before brunch.
I could feel his stare. Like knives. Or worse—like feelings. I refused to meet his gaze, instead focused on buttering a scone with an energy that screamed “unbothered queen.”
Mylene slid into the seat beside me, whispering, “He’s twitching.”
Jhing-Jhing took off her trench coat to reveal a red turtleneck that screamed “conspirator,” then added, “His jaw clenched when you licked the butter knife.”
“I was hungry,” I said, taking a delicate bite. “Also… that’s the same twitch Leon used to have when he planned someone’s slow, painful downfall.”
“Mm. Karma’s buttery,” Mylene muttered, slapping jam on toast like it owed her child support.
Meanwhile, Alec sat across the terrace at a black marble table, nursing the frappuccino espresso like it might help him make sense of the nightmare fever dream that was Catherine.
He had files. Photos. Surveillance. Documents that should have made her just a regular woman with mom issues and a mild Pinterest & Amazon addiction.
But no. She was unpredictable. Terrifying. Familiar in ways that haunted him at 3AM.
And now she was wearing Leon’s exact scent.
Guerlain Homme.
Why the fck would she wear that?*
He crushed a sugar cube in his fist and called Mick under his breath. “Find out what perfume she uses.”
Mick: “It’s not listed in her file, sir. But… her café order is identical to Leon’s.”
Alec stared across the terrace.
Catherine tilted her head, ran a finger over her lower lip, then laughed—Leon’s laugh. That smug, slow, almost-purring chuckle that used to haunt Alec through high school corridors.
His hands were trembling.
“Sir?” Mick asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Alec hissed, even as his espresso cup cracked in his grip.
He lingered in the shadows, watching, waiting, his mind ablaze with plans and curses. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he would cast aside the chains Catherine had placed on him. Soon, he would rise as the ruler he was meant to be, and all those who had dared to oppose him would be forced to kneel or be crushed underfoot.
Mylene sipped her oat milk chai like she wasn’t helping orchestrate psychological warfare. “Okay. Let’s recap what we’ve done.”
Jhing Jhing ticked items off on her iPad like a soccer coach from hell.
“Stage one: Leon lean at school pick-up.”
“Stage two: Cigars at the gas station.”
“Stage three: Scent warfare.”
“Stage four: Random Latin phrases whispered near his men.”