The Best Revenge It Wasn't Even Your Child novel Chapter 595

Catherine had barely met Lemuel a handful of times before, and with her face hidden behind a surgical mask, she was able to drift around the private suite right under his nose for quite some time without him catching on.

Still, her inexperience was plain to see. With every single step meant to prep for the massage, she had to sneak a look at the instruction manual.

Lemuel lounged lazily in the chair, hands tucked behind his head, watching her fumble about with the slow, detached patience of someone with nowhere else to be. He might not have recognized her now, but with her clumsy routine, it was only a matter of time before he put two and two together.

“Please lie back and make yourself comfortable,” Catherine said as she approached, putting on her best professional front. “I’ll give your head a massage to help you unwind.”

At last, Lemuel lowered his hands and spoke for the first time. “Are you new here?”

Catherine nodded.

“I don’t do first-timers. Hasn’t anyone told your spa about my preferences?” His tone was critical, but nonetheless, he lay back and settled in.

Catherine sat down, fumbling through the motions as she attempted a head massage, her technique anything but convincing. “I apologize. My supervisor had a family emergency and all the other therapists are booked. I’m the only one available today. We’ll give you a discount, of course. Please let me know if there’s anything you’re dissatisfied with.”

Lemuel let out a dry, sarcastic chuckle but didn’t bother to reply. He closed his eyes, his face inscrutable, carrying none of that rakish charm she’d seen on their previous encounters.

“Is this pressure all right?” she asked quietly.

“It’s fine. Do what you have to. I’m going to catch some sleep.” Lemuel’s tone was clipped, as if even her questions were getting on his nerves.

Catherine wisely kept her silence and continued, focusing on an especially thick patch of hair, gently pulling—just enough to snag two strands. Lemuel only grimaced faintly, his brows knitting together, but gave no further sign of discomfort.

“Excuse me, sir, let me grab some essential oil for you.”

She reached for her work case, quickly tucked the hairs into a sealed plastic bag, then took out a jar of oil, dabbing some onto his temples before continuing her makeshift massage—at best, just pressing at random. A strong whiff of mentholated ointment crept into the air, and the smell was sharp enough to snap Lemuel fully awake.

“Of course not.” Catherine’s hands eased their pressure. “Did someone say otherwise?”

“Today’s my kids’ naming party—my son and my daughters,” Lemuel muttered darkly. “But their father is off relaxing at a spa instead. Doesn’t that make me the object of everyone’s contempt?” He answered himself, voice heavy with irony. “You must’ve heard—the great Lemuel: father of three—two girls and a boy. Hell of a legacy, right?”

Catherine’s eyes flickered, picking up on the sharp bitterness and resignation in his tone as he talked about his “three children.”

“Congratulations,” she offered softly.

“Congratulations?” Lemuel’s eyes cracked open, his expression twisted with tired frustration. Maybe he’d been bottling it up for too long, because now he couldn’t help unburdening himself to a stranger. “I’m just a pawn to the Lees. Now that they’ve got better pieces to play, I don’t even matter anymore.”

This definitely wasn’t what Catherine had prepared herself for—she’d come in hoping to pluck a couple of hairs, and instead found herself forced into the role of confidant to a bitter stranger. She wasn’t sure she even knew how to respond.

“Ah, whatever. So long as they keep me comfortable, it’s fine. I can keep chasing women, having my fun, living wild—no one’s stopping me from enjoying what’s left of my youth—”