REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 79: Chapter 79
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Operation Red Toe
Friday, 10:43 AM
Location: Rivera Nail & Beauty Spa, Hair Extension Room, and Secret Café
The air was electric. The streets glistened with that early humidity that promised heat, betrayal, and someone’s poor choice in highlighter.
We were ready.
Me: crouched like a war criminal just inside the salon door, disguised in a floppy bucket hat, oversized glasses, and pretending to read Housekeeping Digest.
Mylene: sipping a triple macchiato outside on the café patio, wearing an “I’m just here for the caffeine” shirt but secretly texting one of her mole-baristas.
Jhing Jhing: already inside the belly of the beast, blowing kisses to her fake appointment card and casually chatting up Chloe, the nail-and-hair czarina, while holding a vial of suspicious pink liquid labeled “Operation Unicorn Sneeze.”
10:52 AM – The Infiltration Begins
Dorothy waltzed in like a telenovela villain—sunglasses the size of a small country, lipstick redder than a crime scene, and heels so tall she walked like she was on stilts… possessed stilts.
“Chloe. Root touch-up. Rich auburn. You know the drill,” she snapped, like someone who still thought it was 2006 and she was the villain in a shampoo commercial.
But Chloe looked confused. “Actually, we had a note here. Your color request changed to… uh… neon green ombré with magenta highlights?”
Dorothy blinked. Once. Twice. “What?”
“Your assistant texted us,” Chloe lied smoothly (thank you, Jhing Jhing). “Said it was your new edgy vibe.”
Dorothy looked around as if trying to find someone to scream at. Jhing Jhing, across the room in curlers, waved and blew her a kiss. Dorothy flipped her off with French-manicured disdain.
11:09 AM – Hairpocalypse
The first scream came from the sink area.
Then the second scream. Louder. Pitched like a kettle boiling in rage.
Dorothy flew past me, her hair foiled and soaked in Operation Unicorn Sneeze, green streaks already forming like rebellious tendrils from a chemical uprising.
“WHO DID THIS?! THIS IS NOT AUBURN! I LOOK LIKE A FROG WHO LOST A BET!”
Behind her, Chloe muttered, “Well, frogs are trending in Japan—”
Dorothy threw a towel at her.
11:23 AM – The Coffee Strike
Meanwhile, Mylene made her move.
Across the street at the posh Bean & Rose Café, Mylene was already five steps ahead. She'd slipped one of her mommy-network-developed, all-natural, triple espresso with a hint of chaos herbal "enhancers" into Dorothy’s custom almond milk iced mocha when the clueless barista turned away to get oat milk.
Dorothy burst in right after her hair meltdown, demanding her order.
One sip.
Two sips.
Then her stomach made a sound like a vintage motorcycle trying to start in the rain.
“Excuse me,” she said through clenched teeth, then sprinted to the restroom like her Louis Vuitton heels were on fire.
11:39 AM – I Couldn’t Watch
I stood awkwardly near the café display case, trying to keep my head down while they fixed my split ends in the salon next door. I was under hair dryer #4, pretending I was a completely normal person and not someone whose actual enemy was now battling for her gastrointestinal soul two walls over.
Jhing Jhing slid into the seat next to me with a wink. “She’s been in the toilet for ten minutes. I think she tried to curse in Latin.”
Mylene texted us from outside:
Bathroom update: She’s cursing at the mirror and might be sweating out her soul. I hope that herbal thing was organic. Too late now lol.
12:05 PM – Tactical Retreat
Dorothy finally emerged from the bathroom.
Hair wrapped in a towel like a martyr. Makeup smudged. Eyes wild. Lipstick gone. Her iced mocha barely touched.
She muttered something about lawsuits and ancient bloodlines, then stormed out.
Mylene sipped her third coffee with a satisfied sigh.
“Motherhood may be chaos,” she said. “But revenge? Revenge is an art.”
Post-Mission Debrief – 1:00 PM, Mylene’s Flat
The kids were watching Peppa Pig, completely oblivious to the fact their mothers had just waged psychological warfare on a cosmetics-based battlefield.
I sat on the couch with a fresh coffee, towel still on my head.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that pale,” I murmured. “Like a ghost who just overdrafted her soul.”
“She deserved it,” Jhing Jhing said, holding up Dorothy’s rescheduled appointment list. “She rebooked for next week. But we’ve already bribed Chloe’s cousin.”
Mylene added, “And I slipped a laxative sample in her free skincare gift bag. Just in case.”
We toasted with our coffee mugs like true battle-hardened mothers of vengeance.
“She wants my past?” I said, looking out the window toward the distant hills where the Darrow vault might be hidden. “Let’s give her something to remember.”
Saturday – 7:42 AM
Location: My Kitchen, Still Wearing Pajamas, Coffee Level: Critical
The morning started peacefully enough. The kids were fighting over cereal, Peppa Pig was blaring like a war trumpet, and I was still in my unicorn robe, trying to remember if I’d actually slept or just blinked at 3 AM and woke up in another timeline.
That’s when the doorbell rang. Not once.
Sixteen times. In a row.
I shuffled to the door, hair resembling a wild thicket and coffee mug in hand. I opened it.
There, standing like a glittering villain fresh from hell's runway, was Dorothy.
In full glam. At 7:42 AM.
Bright red coat. Jet-black shades. Hair now back to terrifying perfection like the salon incident had never happened (curses, extensions!). She had one manicured hand perched on her hip, the other holding a sparkly pink envelope.
“Morning, Catherine,” she said with the sugar of a fake influencer and the venom of a hungry python. “I just wanted to return the favor.”
I blinked. “Favor?”
She smiled. “I heard you’ve been quite... active.”
Then she handed me the envelope like she was dropping a legal bomb. “Invitation. I’m hosting a brunch. Just us girls. Tomorrow. Dress fancy. No children. No excuses.”
Then she strutted off down my driveway like a demon heading to a charity gala.
I opened the envelope with my trembling fingers.
Inside was an embossed card that read:
✨THE LADY DARROW SOCIETY✨
Exclusive Brunch for Select Women of Taste and Legacy
Hosted by Dorothy Darrow
Sunday, 10:30 AM – The Ivory Room, Velmont Hotel
Theme: The Rise of Power & Heirlooms
Dress Code: Red and Painfully Expensive
Beneath it, written in lipstick:
Let’s see who still belongs at the top, darling. ❤️
I am Leon Darrow, rich and badass of all badasses…I was the assassin…and right now. I was scared…really scared, I hate parties….
10:00 AM – Emergency Meeting at Mylene’s Flat
Mylene wore a full green yellow silk robe and under-eye patches that screamed crisis. Jhing Jhing had curlers in her hair and was massaging her temples with Tiger Balm.
“I told you,” Mylene hissed. “That woman never plays fair. She’s planning something.”
“She wants to publicly humiliate you,” Jhing Jhing said, flinging her Peppa Pig slipper across the floor. “You know, ‘Catherine shows up, gets iced out, can’t afford the brunch menu, possibly slips on a decorative lily pad’ situation.”
“Maybe she’ll make it look like I’m crashing,” I said grimly. “Like I’m the ex of her dead husband trying to reclaim ‘my glory.’”
Mylene held up the invitation. “Theme: Heirlooms? Girl, she’s going to talk about the vault.”
We all fell into a dramatic silence, broken only by the Peppa Pig theme song still echoing faintly in the background like a taunt.
Sunday – 10:15 AM – Velmont Hotel, Outside the Ivory Room
Weather: 75°F, sunlight dramatic, as if God Himself wanted to see this showdown.
We did not come to play.
We came to be seen, heard, feared, photographed, and whispered about.
We came like the ghost of fashion-forward vengeance, our heels clacking a warning to anyone standing between us and our narrative reclamation.
Me:
Leon’s old suit jacket—black, tailored, and tighter than my patience—hugged my frame like revenge. I paired it with red stilettos sharp enough to pierce a man’s ego, and lipstick in the shade ‘Final Warning.’ My hair? Slicked back with secrets and war plans. My perfume? A blend called “Court Summons.” And in my purse? A compact Glock, pepper spray, lip gloss, and a black platinum card that could buy a mid-sized island nation twice.
Mylene:
Wearing a hot pink pantsuit so bold it might be visible from orbit. Her collar sparkled with rhinestones spelling “Warrior,” because subtlety had been murdered long ago. Her makeup was so flawless, the sun paused to admire it. She carried a clutch, a titanium flask filled with tequila and secrets, and a glare that could fry WiFi. Her nails? Acrylic claws, neon pink, filed for maximum damage. She clicked them together like a villain in a soap opera.
Jhing Jhing:
Imagine a Bond villain mixed with a drag queen and a battle mage. That was Jhing Jhing in her neon green power dress—cinched waist, aggressive shoulder pads, and glitter heels that looked like they were forged in Mount Sass. Her compact mirror was rigged with a mini mic and listening device, because who trusted brunch? Her hair was done in sculpted waves, her confidence glowing like a solar flare, and her shoes? Weapons of quiet destruction.
We didn’t walk in.
We strutted in.
Like angels of chaos in an early 2000s Charlie’s Angels slow-mo scene. Every head turned. One woman spilled her mimosa. Another clutched her pearls so hard one popped off and rolled under the buffet table.
Friday, 10:43 AM
Location: Rivera Nail & Beauty Spa, Hair Extension Room, and Secret Café
The air was electric. The streets glistened with that early humidity that promised heat, betrayal, and someone’s poor choice in highlighter.
We were ready.
Me: crouched like a war criminal just inside the salon door, disguised in a floppy bucket hat, oversized glasses, and pretending to read Housekeeping Digest.
Mylene: sipping a triple macchiato outside on the café patio, wearing an “I’m just here for the caffeine” shirt but secretly texting one of her mole-baristas.
Jhing Jhing: already inside the belly of the beast, blowing kisses to her fake appointment card and casually chatting up Chloe, the nail-and-hair czarina, while holding a vial of suspicious pink liquid labeled “Operation Unicorn Sneeze.”
10:52 AM – The Infiltration Begins
Dorothy waltzed in like a telenovela villain—sunglasses the size of a small country, lipstick redder than a crime scene, and heels so tall she walked like she was on stilts… possessed stilts.
“Chloe. Root touch-up. Rich auburn. You know the drill,” she snapped, like someone who still thought it was 2006 and she was the villain in a shampoo commercial.
But Chloe looked confused. “Actually, we had a note here. Your color request changed to… uh… neon green ombré with magenta highlights?”
Dorothy blinked. Once. Twice. “What?”
“Your assistant texted us,” Chloe lied smoothly (thank you, Jhing Jhing). “Said it was your new edgy vibe.”
Dorothy looked around as if trying to find someone to scream at. Jhing Jhing, across the room in curlers, waved and blew her a kiss. Dorothy flipped her off with French-manicured disdain.
11:09 AM – Hairpocalypse
The first scream came from the sink area.
Then the second scream. Louder. Pitched like a kettle boiling in rage.
Dorothy flew past me, her hair foiled and soaked in Operation Unicorn Sneeze, green streaks already forming like rebellious tendrils from a chemical uprising.
“WHO DID THIS?! THIS IS NOT AUBURN! I LOOK LIKE A FROG WHO LOST A BET!”
Behind her, Chloe muttered, “Well, frogs are trending in Japan—”
Dorothy threw a towel at her.
11:23 AM – The Coffee Strike
Meanwhile, Mylene made her move.
Across the street at the posh Bean & Rose Café, Mylene was already five steps ahead. She'd slipped one of her mommy-network-developed, all-natural, triple espresso with a hint of chaos herbal "enhancers" into Dorothy’s custom almond milk iced mocha when the clueless barista turned away to get oat milk.
Dorothy burst in right after her hair meltdown, demanding her order.
One sip.
Two sips.
Then her stomach made a sound like a vintage motorcycle trying to start in the rain.
“Excuse me,” she said through clenched teeth, then sprinted to the restroom like her Louis Vuitton heels were on fire.
11:39 AM – I Couldn’t Watch
I stood awkwardly near the café display case, trying to keep my head down while they fixed my split ends in the salon next door. I was under hair dryer #4, pretending I was a completely normal person and not someone whose actual enemy was now battling for her gastrointestinal soul two walls over.
Jhing Jhing slid into the seat next to me with a wink. “She’s been in the toilet for ten minutes. I think she tried to curse in Latin.”
Mylene texted us from outside:
Bathroom update: She’s cursing at the mirror and might be sweating out her soul. I hope that herbal thing was organic. Too late now lol.
12:05 PM – Tactical Retreat
Dorothy finally emerged from the bathroom.
Hair wrapped in a towel like a martyr. Makeup smudged. Eyes wild. Lipstick gone. Her iced mocha barely touched.
She muttered something about lawsuits and ancient bloodlines, then stormed out.
Mylene sipped her third coffee with a satisfied sigh.
“Motherhood may be chaos,” she said. “But revenge? Revenge is an art.”
Post-Mission Debrief – 1:00 PM, Mylene’s Flat
The kids were watching Peppa Pig, completely oblivious to the fact their mothers had just waged psychological warfare on a cosmetics-based battlefield.
I sat on the couch with a fresh coffee, towel still on my head.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that pale,” I murmured. “Like a ghost who just overdrafted her soul.”
“She deserved it,” Jhing Jhing said, holding up Dorothy’s rescheduled appointment list. “She rebooked for next week. But we’ve already bribed Chloe’s cousin.”
Mylene added, “And I slipped a laxative sample in her free skincare gift bag. Just in case.”
We toasted with our coffee mugs like true battle-hardened mothers of vengeance.
“She wants my past?” I said, looking out the window toward the distant hills where the Darrow vault might be hidden. “Let’s give her something to remember.”
Saturday – 7:42 AM
Location: My Kitchen, Still Wearing Pajamas, Coffee Level: Critical
The morning started peacefully enough. The kids were fighting over cereal, Peppa Pig was blaring like a war trumpet, and I was still in my unicorn robe, trying to remember if I’d actually slept or just blinked at 3 AM and woke up in another timeline.
That’s when the doorbell rang. Not once.
Sixteen times. In a row.
I shuffled to the door, hair resembling a wild thicket and coffee mug in hand. I opened it.
There, standing like a glittering villain fresh from hell's runway, was Dorothy.
In full glam. At 7:42 AM.
Bright red coat. Jet-black shades. Hair now back to terrifying perfection like the salon incident had never happened (curses, extensions!). She had one manicured hand perched on her hip, the other holding a sparkly pink envelope.
“Morning, Catherine,” she said with the sugar of a fake influencer and the venom of a hungry python. “I just wanted to return the favor.”
I blinked. “Favor?”
She smiled. “I heard you’ve been quite... active.”
Then she handed me the envelope like she was dropping a legal bomb. “Invitation. I’m hosting a brunch. Just us girls. Tomorrow. Dress fancy. No children. No excuses.”
Then she strutted off down my driveway like a demon heading to a charity gala.
I opened the envelope with my trembling fingers.
Inside was an embossed card that read:
✨THE LADY DARROW SOCIETY✨
Exclusive Brunch for Select Women of Taste and Legacy
Hosted by Dorothy Darrow
Sunday, 10:30 AM – The Ivory Room, Velmont Hotel
Theme: The Rise of Power & Heirlooms
Dress Code: Red and Painfully Expensive
Beneath it, written in lipstick:
Let’s see who still belongs at the top, darling. ❤️
I am Leon Darrow, rich and badass of all badasses…I was the assassin…and right now. I was scared…really scared, I hate parties….
10:00 AM – Emergency Meeting at Mylene’s Flat
Mylene wore a full green yellow silk robe and under-eye patches that screamed crisis. Jhing Jhing had curlers in her hair and was massaging her temples with Tiger Balm.
“I told you,” Mylene hissed. “That woman never plays fair. She’s planning something.”
“She wants to publicly humiliate you,” Jhing Jhing said, flinging her Peppa Pig slipper across the floor. “You know, ‘Catherine shows up, gets iced out, can’t afford the brunch menu, possibly slips on a decorative lily pad’ situation.”
“Maybe she’ll make it look like I’m crashing,” I said grimly. “Like I’m the ex of her dead husband trying to reclaim ‘my glory.’”
Mylene held up the invitation. “Theme: Heirlooms? Girl, she’s going to talk about the vault.”
We all fell into a dramatic silence, broken only by the Peppa Pig theme song still echoing faintly in the background like a taunt.
Sunday – 10:15 AM – Velmont Hotel, Outside the Ivory Room
Weather: 75°F, sunlight dramatic, as if God Himself wanted to see this showdown.
We did not come to play.
We came to be seen, heard, feared, photographed, and whispered about.
We came like the ghost of fashion-forward vengeance, our heels clacking a warning to anyone standing between us and our narrative reclamation.
Me:
Leon’s old suit jacket—black, tailored, and tighter than my patience—hugged my frame like revenge. I paired it with red stilettos sharp enough to pierce a man’s ego, and lipstick in the shade ‘Final Warning.’ My hair? Slicked back with secrets and war plans. My perfume? A blend called “Court Summons.” And in my purse? A compact Glock, pepper spray, lip gloss, and a black platinum card that could buy a mid-sized island nation twice.
Mylene:
Wearing a hot pink pantsuit so bold it might be visible from orbit. Her collar sparkled with rhinestones spelling “Warrior,” because subtlety had been murdered long ago. Her makeup was so flawless, the sun paused to admire it. She carried a clutch, a titanium flask filled with tequila and secrets, and a glare that could fry WiFi. Her nails? Acrylic claws, neon pink, filed for maximum damage. She clicked them together like a villain in a soap opera.
Jhing Jhing:
Imagine a Bond villain mixed with a drag queen and a battle mage. That was Jhing Jhing in her neon green power dress—cinched waist, aggressive shoulder pads, and glitter heels that looked like they were forged in Mount Sass. Her compact mirror was rigged with a mini mic and listening device, because who trusted brunch? Her hair was done in sculpted waves, her confidence glowing like a solar flare, and her shoes? Weapons of quiet destruction.
We didn’t walk in.
We strutted in.
Like angels of chaos in an early 2000s Charlie’s Angels slow-mo scene. Every head turned. One woman spilled her mimosa. Another clutched her pearls so hard one popped off and rolled under the buffet table.
End of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS Chapter 79. Continue reading Chapter 80 or return to REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS book page.