CEO'S Little Vixen

Ill Intentions Backfired

Diane blinked in disbelief at the massive food container placed on her desk. Seriously? The sheer size alone made her question if it held only food or perhaps something more. Either way, it wasn’t her concern—not yet.

She remained composed, fixing her gaze on Anabel, whose face was lit up with a smile too smug to be sincere.

“Sister,” Anabel chirped, her voice sweet like honey laced with poison. “I thought you might be hungry by now, so I brought lunch for both of us. Turns out, I was right! I even saw you about to head to the canteen—well, no need for that anymore. Your thoughtful little sister has you covered tonight.”

Diane didn’t respond immediately. She simply crossed her arms and leaned back slightly, curious to see what kind of performance Anabel had prepared this time. Her eyes followed Anabel’s every move as she laid out the contents on the desk with exaggerated care.

When she was done, Anabel clasped her hands together and beamed. “Sister, everything is all set. Eat up before it gets cold. Porridge is best when it's piping hot.”

Diane raised a brow and shook her head lightly. “I don’t eat porridge.”

Anabel’s smile faltered for a split second before she sighed dramatically. “Sister, I’m really sorry about the other day. I know I caused trouble, but it wasn’t intentional. I came to apologize. Don’t be so petty, okay? I even made this porridge myself. You can’t just let it go to waste.”

Diane’s eyes narrowed. Is she really doing this on purpose, or has she conveniently forgotten? Of all the things in the world, millet porridge was one dishes Diane couldn’t stomach—literally and emotionally. And Anabel knew that. She had known it since they were young.

Still, Diane kept her tone neutral. “It’s not that I don’t want to eat what you make. I just can’t eat porridge—you know that. As for the other day, I’ve let it go. Apology accepted.” She began to gather some documents on her desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting in an hour, and I’d like to prep.”

Anabel’s cheerful expression cracked for real this time. Frustration flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly masked by a sudden, theatrical shift. As footsteps echoed from the hallway, signaling employees returning from lunch, a calculating gleam lit up her gaze.

She changed her tone, adopting a pitiful softness and raising her voice just enough to draw attention. “Sister,” she said, eyes glistening as if holding back tears, “even if it’s just one spoon. Please eat it, then I’ll leave. If you don’t even taste one bite, then I’ll know you haven’t really forgiven me.”

Her voice carried out into the corridor. Sure enough, a few curious heads began to peek through the glass partition. Whispers rippled.

Diane looked up, now visibly exasperated. She’s staging a show. A manipulative, pitiful performance—and I’m the unwilling co-star.

And Anabel wasn’t done.

Before Diane could utter another word, Anabel picked up a spoonful of porridge and held it to Diane’s lips like a doting caregiver. “Just one spoon, sister,” she pleaded loudly. “Please?”

The scent hit Diane like a punch to the gut. Her stomach turned instantly, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt nauseated—suffocated. Her hand shot up instinctively, swatting the spoon away. It clattered to the ground, porridge splattering across the polished floor.

“Anabel, are you out of your mind?!” Diane snapped, her voice sharp and firm, rising above the murmurs outside the door. “I told you—I can’t eat porridge. Don’t play innocent with me. You knew that.”

Anabel stepped back, eyes wide in mock shock. “I was just trying to help—why are you being so aggressive?”

“Oh please,” Diane scoffed, her voice cold as steel. “Don’t act like the victim now. You planned this, didn’t you? You knew I hate porridge. You knew people would be watching. You knew I wouldn’t take your bait quietly. Is this your idea of an apology? Or just another one of your petty power plays?”

Gasps came from outside the room. Diane didn’t care.

Anabel’s mask cracked further. “I was just trying to make peace—”

“No, you were trying to humiliate me. And if your idea of peace involves guilt-tripping and emotional blackmail, then you need to try harder.” Diane’s tone was calm, but the words landed like daggers.

Silence fell between them. For once, Anabel had no witty retort.

Diane bent down, picked up the container, and placed it firmly back in Anabel’s hands.

“Take this with you. And next time, bring your tricks somewhere else. I run a business here—not a drama club.”

Anabel stood frozen, face burning with shame and fury as employees quickly turned away, pretending to be busy now that the scene had ended.

Diane returned to her documents with an air of finality.