REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 63: Chapter 63

And yes, it scared me. Because for so long, being Leon Darrow meant control, strategy, power. It meant surviving. But this—cooking with friends, yelling at pies, laughing over garlic—this felt like living. A part of me mourned Leon. He was brutal, brilliant, and dangerously cool. But a louder part whispered:
“Leon never felt this alive.”
Not even when he outsmarted billionaires.
Not even when he held entire cities in his pocket.
Not even when he rerouted Mongolian gold through three continents while sipping espresso in a bathrobe.
So yes… Thanksgiving? Still weird. Still confusing.
But as I stared at that turkey—golden, sizzling, majestic—I realized something else:
I was happy. Really happy. And that scared me even more than the camel toe maid.
Then came dinner—that glorious, chaotic, movie-worthy moment of truth. The front door opened and in marched the three Filipina babysitters, dragging in our sugar-high, giggling children like war prisoners of cuteness. The women looked like they’d just walked out of a live-action warzone. Their hair was frizzed, clothes askew, eyes wild. One of them whispered something in Tagalog that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.
Still, they delivered the kids with only one scraped knee, one missing shoe, and a whole lot of psychological damage. We saluted them in silence. They didn’t even wait for a tip—just nodded grimly, muttering “God bless,” like trained mercenaries who knew when to retreat.
The turkey, however, was a triumph. Golden. Glorious. Smelling like redemption and buttery lust.
We carved it with reverence and served it like an offering to the gods of carbs and calories. The chicken adobo shined beside it like the seductive side character in a K-drama. The pies—still lopsided—tasted like sweet trauma and burnt effort.
Then came the dancing.
Oh, the dancing.
We started with music. Then came the karaoke, which no one asked for and everyone regretted.
I—me, once the kingpin of silence and precision—grabbed the mic and murdered a Mariah Carey song so violently the turkey nearly came back to life to file a noise complaint. I shrieked. I howled. I hit notes that hadn’t been invented.
Mylene, drunk off her third mimosa and a suspiciously strong “apple cider,” danced like her knees were made of Play-Doh and her soul had gone to Ibiza. She twerked in front of the refrigerator. She grinded on a chair. She tried to slap Jhing Jhing’s butt but missed and hit a pie.
The children, now bloated with sugar, ran in circles. We fed them sweets and diabetes like irresponsible yet well-meaning aunts. One of them licked the wall. No one stopped them.
Jun, Jhing’s poor husband, came to “check in.”
He stepped into the room, took in the sight—Mylene fake crying on the karaoke mic, Jhing Jhing belly laughing with a meat skewer in hand, and me dancing with a child’s tiara on my head—and silently turned around with his plate and left. He knew better.
We partied hard.
Too hard.
The next morning? Armageddon.
The kitchen looked like a post-apocalyptic battlefield. Bottles everywhere. Half-eaten pie. A lollipop and vomit shared the same corner like two unfortunate roommates.
The turkey carcass sat like a fallen hero.
The TV was still playing karaoke tracks in the background, echoing trauma.
The three Filipina babysitters were gone. Not a trace. Probably escaped at dawn and left us to rot. I wouldn’t blame them. I’d have left too.
Mylene was once again under the table, hugging a bottle of sparkling water like it owed her money. She groaned and hissed at the light like a vampire who'd seen too much.
I woke up in the bathroom, face planted on a Hello Kitty bath mat, wearing someone else's robe and one sock. I groaned, sat up, saw my reflection and screamed internally.
The kids were all in the master bedroom, cuddled together in what looked like a cuddle-puddle of sugar crashes and dreams. One of them had drawn a turkey on the wall in what I prayed was dark chocolate.
We gathered like survivors. Sat around the kitchen, drinking coffee like it was holy water.
We swore—again—we would never drink like that again.
But of course, we lied.
Because a few hours later, after a group nap and a round of ibuprofen and leftover pie, I checked my burner phone and received a lovely update from Joe.
Alec had returned from Dubai.
With a bruised ego. An even more bruised pride. And an empty wallet.
Apparently, the sheikh had demanded compensation, and Alec—idiot, overconfident Alec—tried to save face by selling off three properties in one day.
Too bad.
Because Joe, my loyal tech genius with a petty streak and hacker thumbs, had already rerouted the documents. By the time Alec went to finalize, the properties were gone.
Gone.
Mine now.
Thanks to Joe's lightning-fast fingers, he accidentally sold two of my old mansions in Greece (I didn’t even remember owning those), and three townhouses in Scotland and Vegas.
Where did the money go?
Straight to my Swiss account. Untraceable. Invisible. Delicious.
I sipped my black coffee like it was the tears of my enemies and smiled. Because no matter how drunk, how chaotic, how painfully normal life was becoming...
I was still Leon Darrow. Just in fuzzy socks and a tiara.
And Alec?
He was now in debt, friendless, emasculated, and living off hotel breakfast bars while begging the market to crash so he could breathe again.
God, I loved Thanksgiving.