HER REVENGE

chapter 13

Chapter 13

Barry pov

The morning sun cracked through the blinds like it had a vendetta. Sharp rays sliced across the floor, highlighting every damn thing wrong with the space.

I stepped out of my room, barefoot, shirtless, and already irritated. My eyes dragged down the corridor, past the crooked photo frame Camelia kept promising to fix, to the living room that looked like a scene from a low-budget apocalypse.

Cushions on the floor. A throw blanket tangled in a mess. Empty snack wrappers lounging like they paid rent.

What the hell?

“Camelia?” I muttered under my breath, my voice laced with confusion more than anger—for now.

I moved toward the dining table. No scent of toast. No fried eggs. No coffee.

Just a lonely jug of lukewarm water sweating beside a damn plate of sliced apples. Two slices. Like she thought I was some starving hamster.

I stared at it like it might rearrange itself into an actual meal. My heart thumped faster than I liked. A joke? Maybe. But I wasn’t laughing.

I snapped my gaze to the clock on the wall. 8:09 AM.

“s**t,” I cursed. I had a meeting by 8:32.

“Camelia!” I called, louder this time. No response. Not even a sarcastic “what?” that usually came laced with an eye roll.

Then I heard it—the gate clicking shut.

I froze, heart still, jaw clenched.

I darted toward the window, grabbing the curtain with one hand, yanking it aside.

There she was. Camelia, in all her glory, strutting across the compound in jeans and a tank top, holding a white plastic bag like she just solved world hunger.

I didn’t even need to guess. I knew that bag. That logo. That red and gold cursive font.

She went to Zeno’s Café. Our favorite restaurant.

My blood boiled.

By the time I got to the front door, I was pacing. Not waiting. Not breathing. Just pacing.

She stepped in like she owned the building and the rest of us were just tenants in her life. Sunglasses perched on her head, lip gloss shining like sin.

“Oh. You’re awake,” she said casually, kicking her sandals off like she hadn’t just walked out on a man who was supposed to eat.

I folded my arms. “You went to Zeno’s?”

She glanced down at the bag like it wasn’t obvious. “Mhm.”

“No breakfast on the table, and you—” I pointed at the white nylon like it was a crime scene. “—went to get food instead of cooking?”

She raised a brow. “Barry, I just got these nails done yesterday.” She lifted her hand with the elegance of a woman who knew exactly how to piss me off. The nails were coffin-shaped and sparkling like fresh snow. “I’m not slaving over a stove and chipping a gem because your stomach’s making threats.”

I blinked, once and twice.

“You didn’t think I needed to eat before my meeting?”

“Baby, I did.” She walked past me, hips swinging like punctuation. “That’s why I bought us food. You’re welcome.”

“That’s not the point,” I snapped, following her. “Alina never once—not once—bought food when we lived together. She cooked.”

She turned around slowly like a villain in a movie.

“Well, I’m not Alina,” she said, voice dripping sweet poison. “You want a wife who plays housemaid, maybe you should call her back.”

I gritted my teeth, jaw ticking. “Don’t test me, Camelia.”

“Oh, please.” She waved a dismissive hand and placed the nylon on the table. “I’m not your slave. And you’re not some king whose eggs I need to flip before dawn. Eat, or don’t. I honestly don’t care.”

I stepped closer, voice low. “You know what? You’re really pushing your limits.”

“And you’re really living in the past,” she shot back, opening the nylon and setting the boxed food down without breaking eye contact. “Breakfast’s here. Sit your ego down and eat.”

My phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket without even checking the screen. George.

“Yeah?” I answered sharply.

“Barry, you need to get here. Now,” George’s voice was taut with stress. “There’s a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“It’s—f**k—it’s Rosemary. She’s in the office. She’s going off, screaming, threatening. I can’t calm her down. You need to come.”

I looked at Camelia, who was now chewing on her straw like she had all the time in the world.

“I’ll deal with you when I get back,” I said coldly. “Don’t call me.”

Camelia’s eyes narrowed. “Barry—”

But I was already heading for the door.

“Barry!” she called again, voice harder now. “Don’t you dare walk away from me in the middle of a conversation!”

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t give her the satisfaction.

My fingers clenched the car keys like they owed me answers. I stepped out, slammed the door harder than necessary, and walked down the steps toward my car.

The sun was brighter now—too bright. My head was already pounding, not from the light, but from the damn chaos unraveling before 9 AM.

Then my phone buzzed with a message.

George:

She says she’s pregnant, With your kid.

I stared at the screen. My blood didn’t run cold. It boiled.

Pregnant?

Rosemary?

I climbed into the car, fingers gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing stopping me from slamming my head into it.

I looked back toward the house—no movement from the window.

Camelia had gone quiet. Too quiet.

The engine roared to life, but all I could hear was her voice echoing in my head:

“I’m not your slave.”

But she damn sure wasn’t acting like someone who gave a damn either.

I put the car in gear and drove out, tires skimming the gravel hard.

My phone buzzed again.

George:

She’s crying now. I’m locking the boardroom. Just get here fast.

I didn’t reply.

Instead, I hit the accelerator, my mind racing faster than the car.

The whole damn world felt like it was closing in.

And I wasn’t sure who I was angrier at—Camelia for pushing me this far... or myself for still caring.