He was going to meet her later that night. The “other” woman. Mia found it strange how, even as she plotted her course of action, she still referred to her as “the other woman” instead of some foul name. Then again, she’d never been one for outright aggression. She was a subtle, quiet type and that didn’t make for rough language.
Jeff didn’t know she knew and neither did the other woman, his project partner, Cassidy. Mia was no stranger to technology, so when she’d come across the private messages, she’d easily been able to make it look like they’d never been read. What had she been doing in his private message box? Looking for the recipe for the meal she cooked tonight, promised to her by a friend to be sent to Jeff. Jeff, the idiot, had forgotten she had his password.
How fortunate for her.
How unfortunate for him.
“Smells delicious, sugar cake!” he called from his study. “My genius cook fiancé is at it again!”
“All for you, my dear,” she called back, smiling pleasantly so the smile could reach her voice and she would sound in a good mood. “Dinner is ready.”
He nearly ran out of his study and sat down at the table. He moved to serve himself and she motioned for him to relax.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You let me serve. You’ve been working so hard on that project, you deserve a little time to relax.”
“Yes,” he said, mournfully. “I’m afraid it’s going to be another full night for me. I can’t wait until this thing is done.”
I bet, she thought, remembering back to that afternoon when she had called his boss and found out that the project had finally been finished and gone through without a hitch earlier that afternoon.
“It’s been rough,” he said with his mouthful, for some reason eating as fast as he could. “It’s been just one thing after another. A bitch of a project.”
Overcompensating, she thought, pitying him for his lies instead of hating him for them.
“My Mia, this is an excellent…” He blinked and swallowed, putting his hand to his stomach.
“It’s soufflé, darling.”
“Yes, soufflé,” he mumbled as a loud, strange noise came from his stomach. “Peach, I think I might have a sensitivity to your-”
He got up from the chair so fast it clattered back on the floor as he ran to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
“Yes,” she said quietly and stood up, “it will be a long night. But not for the reason you thought.”
Poison may be a typical woman’s art, but in that moment, she was happy to be using it. Anyway, poison was only the beginning.
He groaned loudly from the bathroom as she stood outside it. Smiling, she opened the door just enough to roll in the can of air freshener and then closed it again.
So it began. The first step. Revenge best served cold, in a light soufflé.
By Jaime McDougall who posts at Fiction Scribe