Chapter 28: Operation: Take Down the Queen

Thursday night had arrived, cloaked in heavy silence, broken only by the frantic tapping of laptop keys and the fluttering of Post-it notes flying across the room like confetti in a hurricane.

Katherine Brown sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of her living room, wearing a bizarre pair of llama-print pajama pants and an oversized hoodie with a questionable coffee stain on the sleeve. Around her: a war zone. Bright pink, neon green, and fluorescent orange notes were plastered across every surface —walls, floor, fridge, wine bottle, her own arm. A corkboard leaned against the couch with red thread tying names and events together in what could only be described as a psychological thriller in progress.

She was halfway through typing a search query— "Madison Mason scandal investor fraud?" — when the sound of the doorbell pierced her chaotic cocoon.

Katherine didn't even look up.

"IT’S OPEN!" she yelled, voice rough from too much caffeine and too little sleep.

The door creaked open.

"Katherine?"

Sebastian's voice held hesitation. That was rare. But what followed was rarer still — actual, visible shock on his usually unshakeable face. His expensive suit seemed entirely out of place in this explosion of stationery madness. His gaze swept over the walls, the strings, the pins, the scribbled quotes, the photo of Madison with a mustache drawn on it.

At the center of it all — his Katherine. Wild-haired. Barefoot. Eyeliner smudged. Surrounded by open books, printouts, two laptops, and three mugs (possibly yesterday’s coffee).

"What the hell is this?" he asked finally.

She looked up, blinked at him once, then slowly smirked.

"This, Mr. Mason, is war."

He stared. "Are those… FBI files?"

"No," she said innocently. "But I did call a girl I went to high school with who now works in DC, so... soon." She paused, then pointed to a chart titled:

"Operation: Take Down the Queen"

with Madison Evans written in the middle and little paper flames drawn around her name.

Sebastian took a careful step inside, as if afraid something might explode.

"You're insane," he whispered, half in awe, half in horror.

"And you," she said, standing, walking right up to him, eyes gleaming, "are mine. Which means she messed with the wrong girl."

He opened his mouth, but words failed him. Instead, he let out a laugh. A real one. The first in days.

"Just… promise me one thing," he said eventually.

Katherine raised an eyebrow.

"Don’t kill her."

She winked.

"No promises."

---

Sebastian carefully stepped over three highlighters, a half-eaten donut still in its plastic wrap, and a Business Ethics textbook lying face down like it had given up. He reached down, picked up a nearby sticky note, and read the scribbled line:

“2009: her first backstab. And they believed her again?”

He blinked. “How the hell did you find her maiden name?” he finally asked, turning to Katherin, who was hunched over a fresh batch of printed screenshots.

She looked up, stood slowly, and walked toward him like a plotting villain in fuzzy pajamas. Then, without a word, she rose on tiptoes and kissed him. Warm. Brief. A smirk teasing at the corners of her mouth.

“Because I’m a spy,” she whispered, her voice low and scratchy with conspiratorial thrill.

Sebastian burst out laughing — a rich, genuine laugh that shook his chest. “You are completely deranged.”

“Flatter me more,” she shot back, already diving back into the ocean of documents. “Wait, look at this — her second husband filed for bankruptcy the same year she bought that ridiculous apartment in Soho.”

Sebastian carefully sat down on the couch, moving aside a few neon-colored sticky notes from the cushion. His gaze stayed locked on her — barefoot, hair a mess, glowing with manic brilliance.

His hand dipped into his leather bag. From it, he pulled a small, flat box wrapped in navy paper, tied with a silver ribbon.

“Hey, Katherin,” he said, softer now, “before you fall too deep into the Madison vortex… I got you something.”

She looked up from a pile of chaos. “Is it a taser?”

He smirked. “Not quite. Though maybe next time.”

He handed her the box. She tore into it like a child on Christmas morning. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, with a tiny charm shaped like a bright neon sticky note. On the back, engraved in tiny letters:

“Keep it up, Miss Brown.”

Katherin froze.

Sebastian shrugged, almost shy. “I figured… you deserve to keep being loud.”

Her eyes welled with something suspiciously close to tears, but she blinked fast, clasped the bracelet on her wrist, and looked at him — standing in the middle of her war room, calm in her storm.

“You’re lucky I love you, Mr. Mason. Otherwise, I’d drown you in highlighter ink.”

He laughed again — not because it was funny, but because for the first time in a long time, it all felt right.

And for a fleeting second, in the middle of the chaos, it was quiet. Not because the storm had passed — but because they had finally decided to stand in it together.

---

Katherin clicked her pen three times in a row — once for focus, twice for war, and the third… well, maybe just out of habit. She dropped back onto the floor, spreading out a new line of suspect connections on pink sticky notes, mumbling under her breath like a detective in a noir film.

“2011: fake charity gala. Two CEOs fired, she got promoted. Coincidence? Please.”

Behind her, Sebastian had quietly stepped into her kitchen.

She didn’t notice. Not when he opened drawers, searching for pans. Not when he discovered — to no one’s surprise — that she didn’t own a single decent knife. Not even when he muttered a very British “bloody hell” after opening the fridge and finding nothing but almond milk, expired hummus, and a questionable lemon.

But then…

Forty minutes later.

Something shifted.

Not in her files. Not in her conspiracy map.

In the air.

Katherin froze mid-note. Her nose twitched.

Garlic. Butter. Basil? And… something sizzling?

“What the —” she whispered, eyebrows furrowing.

She stood slowly, as if afraid to spook the scent.

Her bare feet padded across the floor as she followed the trail, cautiously turning the corner —

And then she stopped dead.

There, in the middle of her tragically underused kitchen, stood Sebastian Mason.

Wearing nothing but an apron.

Black. Tied low on his hips.

Bare chest. Sharp lines. Lazy confidence.

He was stirring something in a pan, humming under his breath. As if it were normal for him to be half-naked, barefoot, sautéing vegetables in her kitchen like some domestic sex god.

She blinked.

Twice.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You good?” he asked, completely unfazed.

“...Are you cooking?” she asked dumbly.

“No, I’m summoning spirits.” He flipped something in the pan with impressive skill. “Of course I’m cooking. Your fridge was a crime scene. I ran to the corner store and got real food. You’re welcome.”

She stared.

Then — very slowly — her gaze trailed down to the apron.

Then back up.

“You’re cooking. Shirtless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I wear your K-pop sweatshirt that was lying on the floor next to the bathroom scale?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“Is that… is that pasta?”

“Fresh tagliatelle. From a packet, not made by hand — I’m not a wizard,” he said with mock gravity. “But I did make the sauce. Garlic, basil, cherry tomatoes, a touch of chili. And,” he pointed at the oven with the spatula, “I’ve got garlic bread in there. Actual bread. Not whatever crackers you call dinner.”

She was speechless.

He turned back to the stove, casually flipping a strand of pasta like he’d done it every Thursday of his life.

“You’re a menace,” she finally whispered, almost in awe.

He smirked without turning around.

“And you, Miss Brown, are finally about to eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

And just like that…

The sticky notes could wait.

The Queen could wait.

For now, she was going to sit in her own kitchen and watch Sebastian Mason, barefoot and shirtless, cook dinner like the most absurd fever dream she'd never known she needed.

---

The pasta was divine. Katherin sat barefoot at her tiny kitchen table, still in her absurd pomegranate-print pajama pants, chewing slowly and staring at Sebastian like he might vanish if she blinked too fast.

“You’re telling me,” she said between bites, “that you can negotiate billion-dollar deals before breakfast and cook better than half the chefs on YouTube?”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smug and shirtless. “Multi-talented. It’s terrifying, I know.”

“Mm.” She licked some sauce from her lip absentmindedly. “Definitely dangerous.”

He watched her — the way she tilted her head when she was curious, how she tapped her fork twice before every question, the faint tomato smudge on her chin she hadn’t noticed.

Something warm tightened in his chest.

Not lust. Not pride. Something else.

Real.

“By the way,” she added, nudging her plate aside, “this garlic bread? Illegally good.”

Sebastian bowed slightly. “I accept bribes in compliments.”

“Noted.”

For a moment, the room fell into soft silence. Only the hum of the fridge and the clink of her fork as she swirled the last of the sauce.

Then —

“Do you want dessert?” he asked, tone light.

She squinted. “What kind?”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, bracing his hands on either side of her chair. Their faces were inches apart.

“The kind that doesn’t come in a box.”

Her breath hitched. She looked at his lips. Then back at his eyes.

“Say less.”

He kissed her — warm, slow, deeper than before. Not hurried. Not frantic. Just inevitable.

Her fingers found the knot of the apron. He smirked against her mouth.

“Hey,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, “I have post-its stuck to places post-its should never be.”

“Then maybe I should help you get rid of them.”

“Now that’s a team effort.”

They stumbled toward the couch, laughing into each other’s mouths, knocking over a pile of printouts in the process.

And while the chaos of Madison's past misdeeds remained scattered across the apartment floor — names, dates, connections, motives — something else quietly settled in.

Something steady.

Because what Madison had failed to realize — and what Katherin now fiercely understood — was that the man she had once betrayed, broken, and discarded... would never fall for her games again.

Not now.

Not when his heart was finally, irrevocably, being stitched together by a whirlwind of color, tenacity, ridiculous pajamas, and stubborn fire.

A woman named Katherin Brown.

Her Sebastian.

And whether he admitted it or not...

He was already hers.