REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 82: Chapter 82

Outside, the wind picked up. Dust blew across the old stones of the ruins. Birds scattered.
And in the distance—Dorothy’s SUV, like a black shark in heat, swerved into the lot and parked diagonally. Of course. Her door slammed.
She wore boots too high for hiking and sunglasses too big for her face.
Lipstick blood red.
Her manservants carried maps, ropes, and probably her fragile sense of dignity.
“Showtime,” Mylene whispered, fixing her hair.
“Ready the trap,” Ivy said into her plastic walkie.
“Also,” Jhing Jhing added, “I stole one of her hair extensions last week. It’s in the trap room. Symbolic.”
I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out my own ring—the twin of the one I gave Dorothy long ago. And the one Joe’s men stole from her hotel.
I slid it on.
“Let her walk into our story,” I said, watching her stomp toward the ruins with her delusions in tow. “Because we’re done being ghosts.”
Monday – 11:48 AM – Cliffside View, Overlooking the Ruins
Foggy. Mist in the air. Gulls screaming like unpaid actors. We moved from SUV to picnic blanket like true chaotic Irish queens—heels off, jackets on, mimosa thermoses locked and loaded. A portable monitor balanced between Mylene’s Gucci bag and Jhing Jhing’s emergency burrito pack, casting the bluish glow of revenge cinema.
Down below, the ancient Darrow ruins sat like a cursed scone on a chipped porcelain plate—crumbling, majestic, and absolutely crawling with drama.
I pulled my hoodie up over my wet hair.
Rain drizzled, not quite committed to being a storm, more like a passive-aggressive sprinkle from the heavens.
“We should swim later,” I declared, stabbing a fork into a lemon tart with the same fury I once used to submit exam papers. “Beach is only twenty minutes away. Rain or not, it’s tradition.”
“Irish blood,” Mylene said, raising her mimosa. “We swim in storms. We birth children in fog. We survive entire families with nothing but spite and potato salad.”
“I brought swimsuits,” Jhing Jhing added, pulling out a plastic bag filled with options—one-piece, bikini, and one that looked like it had armor plating. “Just in case the sea tries to fight us.”
“It always does,” Mylened muttered. “Last time I nearly drowned, and the lifeguard just said ‘good effort.’”
We laughed. The twins rolled down a small hill behind us, shrieking in delight, their jackets flapping like tiny chaotic capes.
But then—
BEEP. BEEP. MONITOR MOTION DETECTED.
All laughter evaporated.
The screen on the folding table blinked to life, dragging our attention like a slap to the face. I flicked it to full-size, nearly spilling my mimosa as the glass clinked on the wet wood. The three of us huddled around, breath held, sugar and bubbles forgotten.
There she was.
Dorothy.
She stepped into the ruins like it was a runway carved by forgotten gods, each bootfall deliberate, each blink rehearsed. Her thigh-high black leather boots—clearly not built for jungle archaeology—crunched against ancient gravel like they were stomping on centuries of cultural significance. Her long, wine-colored scarf whipped behind her dramatically, tossed by the wind like a diva’s final exit line. She even paused to glance sideways, as if waiting for applause.
Honestly, if she had summoned a fog machine, we wouldn't have been surprised.
Behind her came the help—Carl and Some Other Carl—both wearing matching camo cargo pants, ill-fitted vests, and confused expressions. They moved through the sacred ruins like distracted Pokémon trainers, half-expecting wild geodudes to attack. One tripped over a creeping vine and swore loudly. Classic Carl.
Dorothy, of course, didn’t look back.
Instead, she stopped dead center in the courtyard, directly under the gargoyle that may or may not resemble her ex. She pulled the ancient map from her bag—the one Joe’s team had planted with carefully aged tea stains and suspiciously helpful red arrows. She unfolded it like it was a letter from Satan’s PR department.
The wind kicked up again, rattling the broken columns and singing through the trees like a chorus of warning. She didn't care. She always thought she was immune to omens.
“Wait for it,” I whispered, the macaron halfway to my mouth. The tension in the air was brewing harder than our grandmother's Sunday tea. Sweet, deadly, and definitely going to stain something.
She stepped over the stone threshold.
A faint red laser quietly lit up at her ankles.
The others held their breath.
One more step. Just one more step.
And then—
K-K-KRRRAAAACK.
BOOM.
The ground beneath Dorothy gave way with the satisfying drama of a soap opera love confession gone wrong. She shrieked—a high, piercing soprano that might’ve shattered Her sunglasses—then plummeted five feet into the trap chamber below. Her scarf flew upwards, momentarily suspended in the air like it was trying to escape this narrative entirely.
The screen blinked, then flickered to the secondary feed.
The camera inside the trap room came alive.
Dust floated in golden shafts of light, catching the lens like glitter at an awards show. The silence was broken by her groan of disbelief, followed by the distant clatter of a broken heel and one final, muffled, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
Mylene gasped. “That thud—I need that sound as my alarm clock.”
Dorothy slowly stood up, hair frazzled, scarf limp, eyeliner slightly smeared. Her heel was broken clean off and her fake eyelashes had begun to peel like sad, flaky stickers. But it was her face—her expression—that made the mimosa in my throat fizz with glee.
Pure. Unfiltered. Betrayal.
She turned in place, trying to make sense of the dusty chamber. The walls were carved with symbols that told stories older than anything she’d ever bothered to understand. This place wasn’t for her. It never had been.
And then—
The whispers began.
The speakers hidden in the stone cracked to life, triggered by motion... and an attitude index over 70%. Joe had really gone all out.
Alec’s voice, soft, deliberate, ghostly:
“You never listened, Dorothy. You only took.”
Dorothy spun around. “WHO SAID THAT?!”
Another recording, this time Catherine’s voice, layered in soft reverb:
“You were always chasing shadows. But Catherine… she was the light.”
Dorothy screamed. Her voice echoed like a bat in a wine cellar. In a fit of rage, she yanked off her broken heel and hurled it at the wall.
It rebounded off the stone, made a satisfying smack, and struck her squarely in the shoulder. We howled.
“Karma’s got a wicked curveball,” I muttered.
Dorothy was spiraling now. She banged on the sealed doors, makeup flaking, pride evaporating.
“SOMEONE LET ME OUT!” she shrieked, smacking her palms on the stone.
I took a long, leisurely sip of my juice—straight from the bottle now. “Can’t,” I said, calmly. “Not until the shame finishes cooking.”
Mylene lifted her glass. “To poetic justice and malfunctioning egos.”
We clinked again, louder this time, the sea roaring below as if it too was in on the joke.
Dorothy had stepped into a tomb of her own making. And we? We were just the audience… the smug, towel-wrapped, slightly tipsy gods of her downfall.
And the best part?
The duck boat was still waiting.
So was the sea.
But first… maybe one more recording:
“You were never the main character, Dorothy. You were the plot twist no one asked for.”
The speakers clicked off.
The vault held her.
The past judged her.
And we, above, smiled into the wind, already wondering…
What would she do next?
Or better yet—
What would we?
Few hours later, up on the hill:
The mist had thickened into a soft drizzle, lacing the wild sea breeze with cold pricks of rain. We didn’t mind. We pulled our towels tighter around our shoulders, like cloaks of defiance against the gray morning. The ocean stretched below us—wild, endless, and loud with waves smashing against the rocks like they had something to prove.
Jhing Jhing squinted at her waterproof watch, the neon pink band clashing magnificently with her solemn expression. “Once we swim,” she said, brushing damp curls out of her face, “can we stop for chips?”
“Obviously,” Mylene replied without hesitation, her grin sharp. “Salt. Vinegar. Glory.”
I let out a laugh and raised my glass, bubbles fizzing violently from the wind. “We just ruined Dorothy’s week,” I said, feeling the weight of what we’d done settle like silt in my chest. “We deserve a fry-up and a sea battle.”
“I still have that inflatable duck boat,” Mylene chimed in, barely suppressing her smirk. “Named it after Dorothy’s ego. It floats, but it squeals if you poke it too hard.”
That broke us.
We high-fived like pirates after a mutiny, mimosas clinking with the kind of wild, sparkling rebellion only coastal wind and dirty secrets could stir. The citrus tang burned deliciously at the back of our throats. A toast to the end of something. Or maybe the start of worse.
From where we stood, the world felt lighter—sharper. The clouds bled color into the sea, turning it storm-silver and full of promise. We could almost forget what lay below. Almost.
Because deep beneath our muddy hill, buried in a vault older than our grudges, Dorothy screamed.
The sound didn’t travel far, not past the wind and gulls. But we could feel it. Her voice was raw with disbelief, echoing off stone walls lined with carvings older than our faith, haunted by whispers that peeled back her illusions like skin. Whispers that told her—over and over—that she was not the hero of this story.
She never had been.
And we, the wild Irish girls in soaked towels and sandy boots, stood above her like fate’s favorite mistakes. We plotted our seaside adventure with full hearts and bad intentions, letting the salty wind bite into our cheeks, letting the sea wash over our sins with each crashing wave.
We weren’t sorry.
Not yet.
Because as the kids unfolded the absurd yellow duck boat and Mylene popped open another bottle of cheap champagne, we laughed louder than we had in years. There was something addictive in the chaos, something beautiful in the ruin.
And maybe—just maybe—we were already planning the next sin.
The sea didn’t mind. It never does.