REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 59: Chapter 59

Meanwhile, in Alec’s Office
Alec watched the CCTV footage from the building across Catherine’s apartment.
He saw her enter. Saw her stop. Saw her freeze.
He saw her shoulders tighten. Her expression blank.
He wanted her to cry.
But she didn’t. She didn’t break.
Instead, she stood taller.
A slow dread began to bloom in his chest.
“Sir?” Mick asked.
Alec didn’t answer.
He stared at the screen, jaw tight.
The ghost he thought he could control just looked straight into the lens—like she knew.
Like she could see him.
And she smiled.
Like a lioness.
Like Leon.
And Alec, for the first time in years, felt afraid.
That morning, the sun barely peeked through the clouds like it, too, was unsure whether today would be a good idea. But I knew. I already had plans. Big ones.
I sipped hot chocolate from my new My Little Pony plastic mug, clad in pink but not torn pajamas covered in little ducks wearing sunglasses. Very intimidating. Very war-ready.
I called Joe Smith with calm, surgical precision. The kind of call that sets entire empires on fire.
“Joe,” I said sweetly, “how about we show Alec that Catherine might be a mother of three, but she’s not someone you piss off?”
By 9 a.m., Alec’s imported goods from Brazil—silk, cigars, precious stones? Gone. Luxury cars? Missing from the garage. Diamond from his safe? Vanished like a teenage boy’s dignity at prom. By noon, his special weapons shipment meant for the Russians was poof, re-routed and redirected into military lockdown in a neutral country.
By the afternoon, three luxury shipments meant for Dubai sheikhs—yes, the kind with gold teeth and oil money—were sitting in Korean and Chinese customs, completely stripped of documentation. Angry phone calls roared from the East like sandstorms in a hurricane. Promises of blood. Demands for explanation. And Alec? He couldn’t point fingers at me.
Because I was just Catherine. A friend of Leon. A grieving, overfed widow mom with good taste in snacks and sass.
While Alec’s world caught fire behind closed doors, I was having retail therapy.
I picked up Mylene and Jhing-Jhing in my SUV. Mylene wore a leopard-print coat that screamed “subtle” like a chainsaw in a chapel. Jhing-Jhing had her hair in a half-bun and baby Ivy strapped to her back like a fashionable ticking time bomb.
“Ladies,” I said, sliding my card into the luxury mall’s glass doors, “Today we reclaim dignity.”
First stop: furniture. The place smelled of cedar, arrogance, and overpriced Scandinavian lighting. I bought couches big enough to swallow sorrow and a crystal coffee table so sharp I could do surgery on it. Flower vases, because I felt like it. Painting of some unknown artist that screams of poignant regrets.
Next: appliances. A talking fridge that could remind me to get revenge. A washing machine that would shame me if I forgot to do laundry. Smart TV. Oven the size of the sun went dark. A pink microwave because vengeance should sparkle.
While the saleslady showed me a marble sink, Jaya tugged at my leg. “Mommy, can I have a rainbow bed that glows?”
Maya asked for everything that glitters. Aliya asked for something dark that screamed murder.
“Sure, baby,” I said, adding it to the list. “If Alec’s going to act like a gremlin, we deserve to live like royalty.”
Jhing Jhing bought a self-cleaning oven she didn’t need. Mylene bought wine coolers and matching toasters. “In case Alec comes over again, I’ll toast his brain,” she said cheerfully.
We bought rugs. Curtains. A chandelier shaped like a phoenix. We even bought matching robes—hot pink with golden embroidery that read “#TraumaButMakeItFashion.”
By late afternoon, we stopped for Korean BBQ and mocktails served in skull-shaped glasses. Jaya dropped lettuce in my purse. Aliya and Maya talked about Korean singers like their life revolved around fake nose and too white skin. Ivy threw a kimchi slice at a man in a suit. The waiter clapped.
“I feel like a rich divorcée from a telenovela,” Mylene sighed.
I leaned back, sipping dragonfruit soda. “You should. You’re about to be in headlines.”
Meanwhile, Alec’s phone must’ve exploded with crisis calls. The sheikh’s men were screaming. The Russians cutting ties. His accountant had a meltdown. And still… he wouldn’t suspect me.
Because all the trails pointed nowhere. Catherine? She was busy buying a fridge that made smoothies and massaged oiled tofu.
And when Alec tried to track where the rerouting came from, Joe Smith sent a looped security feed of Leon—just Leon—signing off documents a decade ago. Untraceable. Beautifully chaotic.
That night, as the moon grinned like a co-conspirator, I lounged on my new Italian sofa in a velvet robe, drinking tea from a golden mug.
“Mess with my house?” I muttered, flipping through a catalogue for more chandeliers. “I’ll ruin yours. With glitter and a goddamn smile.”
And somewhere in his mansion, Alec stared at a burning laptop screen, his temples throbbing, screaming at Mick—
“Find out who the hell did this!”
And Mick?
Mick just whispered, “But… was it Leon?”
Oh Alec, you beautiful idiot. You should’ve never killed me.
Now you’re dating his ghost.
It had been a quiet few weeks. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made even the walls nervous. Alec hadn’t sent a single “accidental” text, hadn’t tried to spy, hadn’t even sent one of his creepy gifts like that one time he mailed a Chanel bag with a single red rose inside and a note that said “Regret smells like you.”
Nothing.
Radio silence.