<h4>Chapter 199: Chapter 199 Bump in the Road</h4>


    Cecilia’s pov


    I barely made it to work the next morning.


    My body ached in ces I didn’t know could ache, and I had the grace of a baby deer learning to walk on ice.


    Who knew so much pleasure could leave you worn out by a night of relentless passion?


    Even my emergency concealer couldn’t hide the faint mark on my corbone.


    I dabbed at it while silently cursing whoever invented white office blouses.


    By the time I reached my desk, I needed caffeine, a chiropractor, and possibly an alibi.


    Just after noon, determined to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s soap-opera-worthy ambush, I stationed myself in thepany lobby.


    Better to intercept the drama at the door than let it ride the elevator up.


    Consequently, employees returning from lunch oring in from outside were treated to an unexpected spectacle--me and Amara, walking out together, smiling and chatting like sorority sisters reunited at alumni weekend.


    We looked so cordial, we were practically one step away from linking arms and dering ourselves besties.


    The office gossip circuit was going to have a field day.


    Brenda from ounting wouldbust.


    I drove us to an upscale shopping center where luxury brands clustered together in a clean, curated temple of capitalism. If you couldn’t find it here, it probably didn’t exist.


    "Miss Moore, shall we have lunch first?" Amara suggested, her tone smooth as silk.


    "Sure," I replied calmly. "There’s a New Mexican ce upstairs. Their green chile enchdase with a heat warning. Think you can handle it?"


    Something in my voice must have triggered herpetitive streak.


    "Of course I can," she said quickly.


    I’d only meant it as teasing, but her defensiveness amused me. Fine then. Game on.


    I led her to the restaurant and, perhaps letting my mischievous side take the reins, ordered several dishes thered in roasted green chile and red chile so hot they came with disimers and extra napkins.


    Amara kept drinking water throughout the meal, her lips and eyelids visibly swelling from the spice.


    By the time we reached the third te of fire-roasted chile stew, she looked like she’d tried to snort a jpe?o on a dare.


    Toward the end of our meal, I noticed her angling her phone--taking photos of the food, of me, of herself. Then came the furious typing.


    I didn’t need a decoder ring to guess what that was about.


    If I had to ce a bet, I’d say she was texting Sebastian’s parents--probably Luna Regina herself--with a breathless report about mytest "attempt on her life via chile peppers."


    Today, culinary sabotage. Tomorrow? Maybe I’d push her down a flight of stairs.


    At this rate, I was bing a full-time viin in her personal soap opera.


    Let her text. I wasn’t here to y nice, and I definitely wasn’t here to y dumb.


    I kept my expression serene.


    "Are you finished eating, Miss Amara?" I asked politely, ignoring the weaponized text campaign happening across the table.


    Amara put her phone down. "Yes, the food was quite good."


    I smiled. "I’m d you enjoyed it. Though you might want to be careful with those sausage lips of yours... roasted chile clearly isn’t your thing."


    Amara pulled out apact mirror, tapping her swollen mouth with a puff like a wounded diva.


    As we stepped out of the restaurant and prepared to work our way through the mall, I froze.


    There she was.


    The woman Xavier had dragged back to our apartment that night--and then promptly abandoned like a takeout container he lost interest in.


    The same woman who kept shadowing me and Sebastian with the stubborn determination of a toddler chasing a balloon.


    And walking right beside her?Someone infinitely more chilling: Mrs. Locke.


    Cici’s aunt. Mr. Zane’s second wife.


    A woman with the eyes of a hawk and the emotional range of a granite countertop.


    I hadn’t expected to run into them here.


    Amara noticed my gaze locked on the approaching pair.


    "Do you know them, Miss Moore?"


    "Not really," I replied curtly, already calcting the odds of avoiding them entirely.


    But luck wasn’t on my side.


    Mrs. Locke and her daughter had already spotted me.


    "Baddy!" Mrs. Locke’s daughter chirped, pouting dramatically in my direction.


    Ever since I’d gently pulled her away from Sebastian during a previous encounter, she’d cast me as the viin in her Disney movie.


    Mrs. Locke, never one to miss a stage cue, leaned into the theatrics.


    "Do you know thisdy, Xenia?"


    "Yes! Baddy!" Xenia repeated, louder this time.


    I was fully prepared to keep descending and let the awkwardness slide into oblivion.


    But Amara--clearly sniffing out the potential for chaos like a bloodhound at a drama convention--not only slowed down but turned to engage.


    "What do you mean, ’Baddy’? Our Miss Moore is a wonderful person. You shouldn’t say such things."


    Oh, for God’s sake.


    She was stirring the pot with the subtlety of a soupdle.


    Someone was clearly desperate to collect a headline-worthy soundbite for the office grapevine.


    I turned back toward Mrs. Locke and her daughter, pasting on a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.


    "Oh, Miss Xeniaa, what a surprise.


    I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay with you at the property management officest time.


    Xenia, sweetheart, let’s not call me ’Baddy,’ okay?"


    "Baddy! I want the Pretty brother!" Xenia insisted.


    "Well," I replied, still smiling, "don’t you already have a brother to y with?"


    "No! You’re bad!"


    "I’m not bad," I said calmly, humoring her while keeping my tone light.


    It was like negotiating a peace treaty with a tiny, tiara-wearing dictator.


    Beside me, Amara tilted her head slightly, her expression catching up to the situation.


    She’d finally clocked that Xenia wasn’t just being bratty--she had cognitive disabilities.


    And then, without warning, Xenia reached out to push me.