REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 90: Chapter 90

A few days later, the plot didn’t just thicken—it booked a five-star suite with a view of the mountains and a heated infinity pool.
Because da dan! Charles V. Dandridge—yes, the Charles V. Dandridge, investor, secret-keeper, mafia-affiliated ballroom enthusiast—was staying at the St. Orion’s Grand Alpine Resort, the kind of place that charged extra for artisanal soap and folded towels into endangered birds.
He didn’t come alone.
Dorothy was spotted going in and out of their suite like it was a revolving door of shady intentions. She wore silk, heels, and the confidence of someone who just deleted an incriminating voicemail.
Naturally, we booked the biggest, most expensive suite right next to them, complete with a balcony so enormous it legally required a wind warning.
So there we were.
Sunbathing. Spying. Slaying.
Mylene, with her emerald bikini said, “I'm wearing this thing, propelled my body into it with a fervour not unlike Dorothy’s aunt at a wedding trying to get into a conga line.”
Jhing Jhing, and I were stretched out on chaise lounges like queens of sass and barely contained suspicion. Our sunglasses were so big they had their own zip codes. Mylene’s were shaped like hearts. Mine were sleek and sharp enough to qualify as a weapon in three countries. Jhing Jhing had gold accents and rhinestones that could signal satellites.
Our bikinis were loud and proud—this body deserves a bikini in the irish sun, cocktails and to be belligerently horizontal on a plastic lounger— we are not here for photoshoots, we are here for vengeance and snacks. Mine in screaming neon yellow, Mylene in dangerous emerald green, and Jhing Jhing in glittering coral that could start international incidents. Because, we buried that low self-esteem in the back of our garden under the patio slabs right next to our dignity.
We had floppy hats. We had beach bags that concealed earpieces and sunscreen.
And yeah, our belly’s wobbling, our arms were jiggling, our thighs were clapping louder than a theatre kid at a production of Hamilton but these bodies paid bills, made humans and parallel parked, survived mild inconveniences and major emotional meltdown in Aldi.
Beside us, our kids squealed and splashed in the pool, supervised by nannies who were already plotting bedtime like a military campaign. Jaya was teaching Aliya and the twin how to cannonball with maximum chaos. Maya, MJ and Ivy, too cool to play, were pretending to read while definitely eavesdropping from under a towel fort.
And we? We listened.
Because two businessmen behind us—one in loud shorts, the other in socks and sandals (a crime in itself)—were talking just a little too casually about “moving dates” and “package deliveries” that didn’t sound like Amazon Prime.
“Did Charles say which port they’re using?” one of them said, sipping a mojito like it was full of secrets.
“No, just that the mountain side needs to be clear by the thirteenth. Big shipment. VIP only.”
“Security?”
“Private. No paper trail. Classic Dandridge.”
I sipped my pineapple mocktail like I wasn’t suddenly full of rage and conspiracy. Jhing Jhing elbowed me with the force of a glitter storm.
“He’s smuggling something,” she hissed behind her drink. “Gold? Guns? Designer shoes made from shame?”
Mylene adjusted her sunhat like she was tuning a satellite dish. “He’s not here for a vacation. This is a smoke screen. I bet that whole ‘picnic in the Alps’ thing was just an excuse for a secret deal.”
A server walked by offering chilled cucumber water. I took one, smiled sweetly, then whispered, “How many rooms did Dandridge book?”
The server blinked. “Just the penthouse suite and a private dining area.”
Perfect.
The vault might’ve been a grave, but this hotel? This was the real battlefield now. The men kept talking behind us—names, dates, logistics, and one questionable joke about embezzlement—and we kept listening, looking like we were too concerned with tanning to care about illegal mountain operations.
But we were watching.
From our balcony, we’d seen Dorothy come and go three times. Once in a robe. Once in heels. Once holding a file folder that screamed evidence.
“She’s up to something,” I murmured, watching through my binocular-shaped sunscreen bottle.
Mylene rolled over. “Maybe we sneak into their suite.”
Jhing Jhing sat up like a queen about to declare war. “Maybe,” she said, pulling out her waterproof lipstick, “we don’t just sneak in. We throw a pool party. Invite them. Get them drunk. Gossip warfare, but elevated. Spa espionage.”
I looked around. Golden light. Beautiful chaos. Secrets crackling like lightning in the air.
Charles V. Dandridge had made a mistake showing up here.
Because the moms of Mountain Watch had come prepared even though it was bloody cold in the middle of the rainy season. Because why not?
Sunscreened. Strategized. And very, very sparkly.
And the next move? Oh, honey—the next move was ours.