REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 81: Chapter 81

Back in my chair, I sat frozen. Not with fear. But power.
Because what I saw wasn't just a meltdown. It was a cornered animal.
She wasn’t just angry. She was ashamed. Embarrassed. Mocked. Everything she’d planned had spiraled into chaos the moment I walked into that brunch in Leon’s jacket. And now? Her image was crumbling. The rich elite had been whispering for the past 24 hours, their group chats sizzling with schadenfreude.
“Did you see Dorothy’s face?”
“Is she still claiming Alec died with secrets?”
“Catherine read her like a gossip column.”
“She slapped TWO people? In a suit she doesn't even OWN?”
The whispers were spreading like wildfire across salon lounges, rooftop parties, and exclusive saunas.
I sipped my tea.
“Joe, can we… leak this to one discreet group chat?” I asked, almost innocently.
Joe snorted.
“Already in four. And a meme just dropped—‘Dorothy’s Vault of Rage.’ Want me to send it to you?”
“Later. Right now, I need something more.” I leaned forward. “I want to know her next move. She said she’s going to the ruins tomorrow?”
“Confirmed,” Joe said. “She’s sending one scout ahead. Tunnel Six—off-limits section. She bribed a heritage official. Sloppy.”
“I’ll be there before she even arrives.”
I reached into my drawer and pulled out the velvet case that held the original Darrow family ring—the one Alec had hidden in my suitcase five years ago. The ring that glowed faintly now, reacting to something.
“Joe,” I said, standing up, a slow grin spreading across my face.
“Let’s give her a reason to scream again tomorrow.”
Monday – 7:08 AM – Caffè Aurelio, Two Blocks from the Ruins
Weather: Moody grey skies with a side of thunder. Birds avoided eye contact. Even the clouds looked like they were judging someone.
I was seated at a tiny, pretentious outdoor table. The kind of café where the waiters had philosophy degrees, and the cappuccino came with its own dissertation.
The barista wore suspenders. The menu had no prices.
The coffee? €17.
The cake? Emotionally complicated, berry-forward, and suspiciously light.
But me? I was dressed like vengeance.
High-waisted slacks. White blouse. Gold earrings. Sunglasses the size of small dinner plates. And confidence sharp enough to slice through stale gossip.
I sipped my overpriced cappuccino and bit into the delicate slice of pistachio rose almond cake like I owned the pavement it was served on.
And then my phone vibrated.
Incoming from Joe
Subject: Dorothy’s Debt Package – Operation Overdue Madness
Attachments: “Bank Statements.pdf,” “Italian Property Foreclosure.docx,” “Credit Default Swaps_Explained.xlsx,” “Emotional Damage_Timeline_Final.pptx”
The notification was followed by a live link.
"Click here to view footage from Suite 1503 – Dorothy Darrow: Monday Morning Meltdown."
Oh, Joe. You always send dessert.
Scene: Velmont Hotel, Suite 1503 – 6:55 AM
Dorothy was mid-bath. The lighting was soft. Her playlist was opera. Her mood? Medusa on espresso.
She swirled her wine lazily, bubbles around her like she thought she was Cleopatra reincarnated.
That is, until her assistant knocked on the bathroom door.
“Ma’am, there’s a—um—delivery. Envelopes. From… the National Bank of Italy. And one marked from Catherine.”
SPLASH.
She bolted upright. Towel now a cape.
The moment she opened the envelope, you could feel the silence scream.
The bank documents were elegantly printed and stacked:
Personal debt: €21.3 million
Property lien: Ravello estate, overdue since March
Secret Italian vineyard bought under a fake name: repo’d
Three offshore accounts under audit
Credit: worse than a raccoon with gambling issues
And then… the ring box.
Her hand trembled as she opened it.
Inside, the gold ring I gave her, two days before Alec killed me, gleamed like it knew secrets.
It wasn’t just a ring. It was a statement and dipped in pure haunt-your-ex energy technology, thanks to Joe.
When she touched it, the lights flickered.
The air turned cold.
And on the mirror, fogged by bath steam, a single phrase appeared in streaky letters:
"Did you think I’d forget?"
She screamed.
Like, Oscar-worthy scream.
She hurled the ring against the wall—it bounced off, rolled under the cabinet, then rolled back to her like it had legs and petty motives.
“NO! THIS ISN’T REAL! HE’S DEAD!”
She paced in circles, hair dripping, towel slipping, voice cracking.
“He can’t be here. Alec SAID he was gone. That the ritual worked! That his soul went—”
She froze. Eyes wide.
“No… He lied. He sent her back.”
She turned to her assistant, who looked one sneeze away from quitting his career and becoming a goat herder in the Alps.
“Get me my gun. And cancel the scout. I’m going myself.”
Back at the Café – 7:21 AM
I stirred my cappuccino slowly, watching her room from the camera link. The ring glinted from under the vanity like it was winking at me.
I hummed softly. Took another bite of cake. Checked my nails.
“She got the package?” Joe asked through my earpiece. His voice smooth, smug, and entirely too chipper for someone who probably hadn’t slept.
“Yes,” I said, licking a crumb off my thumb. “She bathed in madness and went full Greek tragedy before breakfast.”
“You want the clip edited for TikTok?”
“Absolutely. Add a slow zoom and subtitles.”
Joe snorted. “Already on it.”
Across the street, I could see her SUV screeching away from the valet like she was driving to slap destiny in the face.
Too bad for her, the tunnels weren’t just ruins anymore.
They were mine.
Booby-trapped, sealed, and lined with tricks Leon designed in case she ever tried something this stupid.
She was walking into a labyrinth.
And I held the thread.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaled like a queen on a throne, and whispered:
“Let the hunt begin.”
Monday – 8:45 AM – Outside the Darrow Ruins, Parking Lot of Shadows and Schemes
Weather: Still cloudy, moody. The wind was gossiping through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed like it knew drama was coming.
I sat in the back of my new Range SUV, windows tinted, air-conditioning just the right amount of aggressiveness. My espresso was lukewarm now, but it didn’t matter. Because in exactly thirty minutes—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three fast taps on my window. Then a fourth one with dramatic flair.
I pressed the button. The window rolled down.
And there they were.
Mylene, glowing in gold sunglasses, her hair in a high battle ponytail, dressed like she was about to conquer an oil company or seduce a duke. Behind her stood her two 3-year-old twins, both dressed in matching faux-leather jackets, one holding a juice box, the other chewing gum like a Vegas card shark.
Jhing Jhing, in tactical leggings, a trench coat that looked stolen from a spy museum, and hoop earrings large enough to trap radio signals.
And Ivy, in distressed jeans, a denim jacket bedazzled with rhinestones spelling "Haters Cry Harder", holding a laptop and chewing on a granola bar like it owed her rent.
“Where’s MJ?” I asked, nodding as I unlocked the car.
“Nursery school. Thank god,” Jhing Jhing muttered. “Last night he told his teddy bear to ‘lawyer up.’ I blame your influence.”
I smirked. “Where’s my Jaya?”
“With her nanny,” Mylene said, sliding into the passenger seat like it was her throne. “New one. Ex-military. If anyone tries to kidnap her, she’ll break their spine and bake a casserole.”
We piled in.
Jhing Jhing adjusted her earrings. Mylene plugged in her laptop. The twins began playing rock-paper-scissors with suspicious amounts of strategy.
I handed out cold brews from a hidden cooler. This was a war council, after all.
THE PLAN
I turned on the center console screen. Joe had uploaded the blueprints. Mylene clicked through the digital layout of the fake vault—recently constructed by Joe’s absolutely not legally licensed crew of “engineers.”
“So here’s the bait vault,” I explained, pointing at a blinking red dot. “Room temp controlled. Faux artifacts. A fake Darrow crest. Everything made to look real enough to send Dorothy’s remaining brain cells into hysteria.”
“What about the trap door?” Mylene asked, sipping her coffee like a mob wife.
“Joe’s team installed it this morning. Once she crosses the line,” I tapped a spot, “the floor will drop. She’ll fall five feet into a reinforced chamber. The doors close, lock from the outside. We’ll give her a flashlight and maybe a bottle of cucumber water.”
“Make it lemon,” Jhing Jhing said. “Cucumber is too spa-day. Lemon is for enemies.”
“Add a speaker,” Mylene suggested, “so we can play recordings of Alec saying ‘I'm not that into you.’ On loop.”
We all paused for a moment, the gravity of this petty perfection washing over us like a fine mist of vengeance.
“But why now?” Mylene asked. “Why spring it today?”
I leaned back. “Because she’s desperate. She’ll go into the ruins by noon. She thinks she found the key. But all she found was a trap we designed in heels.”
“And what about the real vault?” Mylene asked, her voice dropping into serious territory.
I stared at the map.
“Still missing. Either it's buried deeper… or someone took it decades ago. But either way—Dorothy won’t find it. She’ll be too busy screaming in a box while we enjoy brunch.”