REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 78: Chapter 78

Gossip, Dirt, and Heels in the Mud
Jhing Jhing Goes Undercover (Wednesday, 9:34 AM – Rivera Nail & Beauty Spa)
The air inside the Rivera Nail & Beauty Spa was thick with the mingling scent of lavender oil, nail polish remover, and secrets. The air-conditioning was set to Antarctic levels—either to preserve the clients’ Botox or freeze out awkward conversations.
Jhing Jhing entered with flair.
Tortoiseshell sunglasses. Leopard-print scarf. A knock-off Dior handbag she only used on serious operations. She flashed her most charming Manila socialite smile.
“Hi, I have a 9:45 with Chloe. Gel polish. French, please. Classic, you know.”
Receptionist looked up, unimpressed. “Chloe’s running late. Sit.”
Jhing Jhing gave her a once-over like she’d been personally insulted, then smiled politely and floated to the velvet chair in the waiting area. Two other women sat nearby—one was already talking about Dorothy.
“She was at that wine mixer last Saturday, the one with that senator’s nephew?” said a woman with platinum hair and too much highlighter on her cheekbones.
“Oh my god, that party?” her friend replied. “She wore red to a garden event. Like, girl, we get it, you want to be seen.”
Jhing Jhing leaned in slightly.
Chloe eventually arrived—slim, tattooed arms, hair in a platinum topknot. She wore a black mask under her chin and carried enough attitude to qualify as a mid-tier villain.
As Chloe began working on Jhing Jhing’s nails, the salon’s gossip faucet turned to full blast.
“So,” Jhing Jhing said casually, swirling her pinky, “what’s the latest from the society lady mafia? Any murder plots or shady brunches?”
Chloe snorted. “Depends. You know Dorothy?”
JACKPOT.
Jhing Jhing tilted her head. “Of course. Red heels. Looks like a perfume ad for revenge.”
“She’s been acting weird. Canceling appointments. But when she does come in, she always asks for dark colors. Red, black, sometimes navy. She says she’s ‘reclaiming power.’ Whatever that means.”
Jhing Jhing gasped. “What, like a supervillain origin story?”
Chloe shrugged. “Maybe. Heard from one of the other girls she’s been meeting men in suits at this warehouse out near the port. Government? Or worse—investment bankers.”
That was it. That was the lead.
Jhing Jhing texted the word "PORT WAREHOUSE" into our group chat under the code name: Project Red-Toe.
Just then, a woman in the back accidentally knocked over a bottle of acetone and started crying. “I can’t take this anymore!” she sobbed. “Mark is still texting that flight attendant!”
The salon turned into a live telenovela. Chloe muttered, “That’s the third cheating husband this week,” and Jhing Jhing used the chaos to sneak a peek at the appointment ledger behind the counter.
Dorothy’s next visit: Friday, 11:00 AM. Same place. And apparently, she’d booked a "royal polish + foot detox."
Royal. Foot. Detox. The audacity.
Darrow Castle Ruins (Wednesday, 3:08 PM – Old Darrow Estate)
While Jhing Jhing was swimming in gossip and acetone, I was knee-deep in real dirt. Jaya was with her daytime nanny.
The sky over the old Darrow estate was a dull, stormy gray, the kind of color that warned of both rain and regret. The estate sat like a corpse on the hill—once proud, now crumbling. Wind whispered through broken window frames like a ghost still rehearsing lines from a tragedy long over.
I parked the SUV a ways down the road, beneath a crooked tree. Wore boots, gloves, and that old hoodie with the bullet hole in the sleeve—sentimental…
Correction: It was not really from a bullet hole.
The gate creaked as I pushed it open. Rust flaked off like dandruff from history.
The place looked worse than I remembered.
Roof partially caved. Ivy strangling the stone walls. Some graffiti from bored teenagers (“BOB WAS HERE” in neon green). But under the decay, the bones of old money and ancient secrets remained.
I walked past the fountain—dry now, filled with leaves and a single decaying Barbie doll—and entered through what used to be the library.
Dust coated everything. The air tasted like stale parchment and burned memories.
This was the place Alec used to come back to. Where he claimed the “answers were hidden.”
Back then, I thought it was just melodrama.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I reached the fireplace, where Joe said Alec had supposedly found something five years ago. The floorboards creaked under me as I knelt.
There, behind the mantle, I found it.
A groove. The size of a matchbox. Scratched on the edge like someone had pried something loose.
Using a multi-tool from my bag, I pushed inside.
Click.
A panel fell open. Inside—nothing shiny. Just a brittle, rolled-up scroll in a sealed tube.
It smelled like mildew and betrayal.
I unrolled it carefully.
A map. Not of gold. Not of treasure.
But a series of underground chambers beneath the Darrow estate. One marked: “Vault. Legacy. Bloodline only.”
I stood. Mud now soaked the soles of my boots. Thunder growled overhead. A warning. Or applause.
Joe called just then. I picked up with my shoulder, still staring at the map.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” he said.
“Try me.”
“I just talked to an old friend of Alec’s. A disgraced historian. Alec had been down there. Years ago. But he couldn’t open the vault. Said it was ‘locked to blood.’ He tried everything. Even told Dorothy about it. That’s when she married him. She thought he was her ticket.”
I stared at the line on the map. Vault. Legacy. Bloodline.
And a question hit me like a hammer.
Whose blood? Mine? Or Alec’s?
Joe added, “Dorothy’s moving fast. Word is she’s called in some private ‘investors.’ Could be foreign. Could be dangerous.”
“Then we have to be faster,” I said, stepping out of the ruins as rain began to fall.
Back at Home, 6:12 PM
Mylene was already setting up her mom-intel war room. Jhing Jhing came back with a list of Dorothy’s upcoming appointments, hangouts, and suspicious shoes.
We weren’t just sipping coffee anymore.
We were building an army.
And I was staring at a map.
Not for riches. Not for fame.
But for the truth.
Dorothy wanted my history.
She forgot—
I lived it.