Semua Bab He Chose my Cousin, so I Chose Revenge: Bab 141 - Bab 150

It was mid-morning when Claudia came into my office with a clipboard in one hand and her phone in the other. She didn’t say much at first, just set the clipboard on my desk and tapped her pen against the margin where she had circled a line in red.“What is it?” I asked, already sensing from her expression that it wasn’t just a routine check.“The new batch came in,” she said. “I ran the first few rolls through the scanner, and the readings don’t match the supplier’s certification.”I straightened in my chair. “Not close, or completely off?”“Completely off.”We walked together into the back room where the shipment had been unloaded earlier that morning. The rolls of fabric sat in their crates, neat and unassuming, like they were meant to be here. The soft light from the high windows made the colors look almost perfect, which made the numbers on Claudia’s report feel even more unsettling.I pulled a small section free and pressed it between my fingers. At first touch, it could have foo

The rain had stopped just before sunset, leaving the streets with that soft, reflective sheen that makes the city feel as though it has been polished. I could smell damp stone in the air as I made my way to the little French place Lena had chosen. She had sent me a short message earlier in the day, asking if I could meet her for dinner. There was no hint of urgency in her words, but something about the way she had phrased it—no extra sentences, no playful remarks—made me think it was more than just a casual meal.The restaurant was tucked into a narrow side street, its doorway framed by two tall planters filled with rosemary and lavender. The air around them smelled green and sharp. Inside, the light was low and warm, spilling from shaded lamps onto white tablecloths. The sound of cutlery and soft conversation seemed to settle over me the moment I stepped in. Lena was already there, seated at a small table near the back, her hair pulled into a loose twist and her phone turned face dow

The wind was stronger near the waterfront that night, the kind that carried the salt smell from the bay and pressed the loose strands of my hair across my face. Julian had suggested we walk after closing the boutique, and I had not asked where. I just let him lead, his hand in mine, as we wound through streets where the lamps threw long golden shapes across the wet pavement. It had rained earlier, not heavily, but enough to make the air feel soft and clean.We passed the shuttered front of a bakery, the scent of bread still clinging to the doorway. Somewhere down the street a busker was playing guitar, not loud enough for words to carry but just enough for the chords to find us in snatches. I thought about the long day behind us, about the orders stacked up on my worktable, about the quiet pressure that had been building since Claudia’s proposal to expand into Asia. It had been a flattering offer. The numbers made sense. The opportunities were obvious. And yet something in me resisted

The street outside was still damp from the rain that had passed through during the night. The kind of rain that darkens the brick and leaves the shopfronts gleaming under the early light. I arrived before anyone else and let myself in, locking the door behind me and pausing in the middle of the boutique for a moment before touching anything.It was always quiet at this hour. No footsteps overhead. No hum of voices. Just the faint ticking of the clock in the back room and the muffled sound of traffic from the main road. The air still carried the familiar mix I had grown used to over the years—cotton, cedar polish, and the faint sweetness drifting through from the café next door.I turned on the lights one by one. The racks lit up first, then the display table by the window, then the soft glow above the counter. The kettle went on automatically, a habit I never questioned. While I waited for it to boil, I stacked the fabric swatches Claudia had left out yesterday. She had been experimen

It started raining again the next afternoon, the kind of rain that makes the street shimmer like it has been newly polished. I was standing by the front table arranging a set of hand-stitched scarves when I saw them. Not all of them from yesterday, but enough that I recognized the faces, the way their coats clung damp to their shoulders.The signs were gone this time, though a few carried folded pieces of cardboard under their arms. They didn’t chant. They stood together under the narrow strip of awning across the street, talking quietly, their breath turning into mist in the cool air.I didn’t hesitate. I walked to the door, pushed it open, and let the air and sound of the rain spill in. The sudden shift made a few of them glance up.“You can come in if you want,” I said, raising my voice only enough to be heard over the rain. “It’s warmer inside, and the kettle’s on.”There was a pause, the kind that feels longer than it is. Then the young woman