MR BILLIONAIRE'S REGRET: CHASING HIS IRRESISTIBLE WIFE

(ARIELLE'S POV)

So this was it-The Velvet Fork, our rival restaurant.

"We're going deep undercover," Stephen declared, adjusting his fake mustache and patting down the ridiculous green wig perched on his head.

I sighed, already regretting agreeing to this. "Are you sure that disguise won't just make you more obvious?"

"Obvious? Ha! You're the obvious one!" Rebecca retorted, tilting her enormous sunhat so low it practically swallowed her face. Her oversized sunglasses weren't helping her blend in, either.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Neither of you can talk. We all look like a bad comedy sketch."

"Speak for yourself," Stephen said with mock indignation, twirling his fake mustache. "I'm a method actor. This is art."

I couldn't help but laugh, shaking my head at their antics. Once inside, I managed to steer us toward something resembling a logical plan. "Let's get a table, place an order, and observe their operations," I suggested, adjusting my own dark shades. Stephen straightened his wig. "Got it. Time to give an Oscar-worthy performance."

Rebecca smiled mischievously. "Time to put my spy skills into use and gather as much intel as we need."

We spotted an empty table of three and approached, taking our seats. Afterwards, we beckoned a waiter, and he handed us a menu.

As we skimmed through, our eyes widened in unison. I quickly forced a neutral expression when the waiter asked, "Is something wrong?"This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

"Oh, no, not at all," I said with a too-bright smile, handing back the menu. "Your design is... impressive."

He smiled, his face relaxing. "Can I take your orders now?"

"Of course. I'll have grilled chicken and rice," I said.

"And I'll have the chicken parmesan," Stephen chimed.

"I will have the vegetarian quinoa bowl," Rebecca said.

The waiter scribbled the orders on his iPad before walking away. The moment he was out of earshot, Stephen, who was already fuming, spoke up.

"That menu is a ripoff! It's basically ours! Even the design!"

Rebecca nodded, her voice hushed but furious. "They didn't just copy the look; they stole your recipes. This is outrageous!"

I gritted my teeth. They weren't wrong. "It's infuriating, but let's not make a scene," I said, trying to stay composed.

Rebecca, already in her critique mood, loudly commented. "Their chicken sauce is over-reduced by the way, and the ingredients are off."

Unfortunately, a waiter was nearby and he seemed to have overheard Rebecca as he looked in our direction. He finished tending to the customer he was with and approached us.

"Is there a problem?" He asked, eyeing us wearily. "I heard you complaining about our sauce."

"Of course not, I was referring to the restaurant we visited yesterday. Their sauce was nothing to write home about," Rebecca quickly chimed, forcing a smile.

"Exactly," Stephen and I chorused.

"We were just drawing a comparison," I added sweetly.

"I'm not sure that was the case, I heard her clearly," he said pointing to Rebecca.

I tried to intervene again so things don't escalate and our covers are blown. But fortunately, the other waiter arrived with our orders.

As he served us, a mere glance at the dish with my experienced and professional eyes, I knew instantly that it was undercooked.

I flagged down the waiter politely. "Excuse me, but I believe this chicken isn't fully cooked. Could you please check with the kitchen?"

The waiter's expression didn't even flicker. "That's how it's meant to be served," he said dismissively. "Perhaps you're unfamiliar with international cuisine? This is inspired by the Japanese and Spanish styles." I raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

"Undercooked chicken and raw rice? I've been to Japan and Spain. That's not a 'style'; that's a health hazard, Sir."

I picked up a spoon and scooped up some rice. The texture was off, and the smell was unpleasant-a mix of uncooked and stale spices.

Rebecca chimed in, her tone sharp. "Maybe we should take a sample to a lab. You know, for 'research purposes."

Stephen tried to keep a straight face as he added, "Or a journalist. 'Velvet Fork serves rare chicken-literally.""

The waiter glared at us, but before things could escalate, I stood, carefully placing my napkin on the table. "Excuse me," I said, shooting Stephen and Rebecca a warning look.

I coughed and rose from my seat. Rebecca and Stephen's concerned gaze followed me.

"I'll be right back," I reassured them.

I entered the restroom, grateful for a momentary escape.

"Okay, Arielle, calm down," I whispered, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

The cool water from the faucet splashed over my hands, the steady rhythm helping to calm my racing nerves. With my emotions under control adjusted my muffler and prepared to leave. But just ast turned, hushed voices drifted from the next stall.

"...and then we spread rumors about their food quality," a woman's voice said, low and conspiratorial.

"Yes, and we're planning a fake online review campaign on their app. She thinks she can just waltz back from Italy and outshine us," a man added, his tone dripping with disdain.

I froze, every muscle tensing. Were they talking about my restaurant?

"Arielle Meyers' place is going down soon," the woman sneered.

My blood ran cold. Heart pounding, I stepped back as silently as possible, my mind reeling. Once I was sure they wouldn't notice me, I slipped out of the restroom, my legs moving on autopilot as I returned to our table.

Rebecca looked up, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Sunging

"We need to leave. Now," I said, my voice sharp and low.

Stephen blinked at me in confusion, then promptly panicked. "What happened? Did they find out we're spying? Are they coming for us?" His voice cracked as his wig shifted dangerously on his head. "Whoa, keep it together!" I whispered, hurriedly adjusting the lopsided wig before it could plunge into his soup.

Rebecca frowned, her expression both curious and concerned. "Arielle, what's going on?"

"Outside," I mouthed, gesturing for them to follow.

Without waiting for questions, I pulled a few bills from my wallet, dropping them on the table. I didn't bother calling for the waiter.

Once we were safely outside, I took a deep breath to steady myself.

"I overheard two staff members in the restroom," I said, meeting their expectant gazes.

"What did they say?" Stephen asked, leaning in.

"They're sabotaging us," I revealed, my voice laced with disbelief and anger. "Spreading rumors, leaving fake online reviews, planning campaigns to ruin our business... everything." Rebecca's jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. "Those scumbags."

"Absolute cowards!" Stephen snapped.

While they fumed, I felt something shift inside me. Anger simmered, sure-but beneath it, determination blazed.

"This visit wasn't a waste," I said, my voice gaining strength.

Stephen and Rebecca both stopped, turning toward me.

"We're going to innovate. Change our decor. Rethink our designs. Refine our advertising and improve our service. We already have the

edge, but we can push further ene

said, my mind buzzing with possibilities.

However, Rebecca and Stephen paused in their words, exchanging long, knowing glances. And both sighed loudly.

Rebecca tilted her head. "I mean... yeah, I guess that's logical."

Stephen crossed his arms. "Or," he said dramatically, "we sneak into their kitchen and plant a couple of dead cockroaches in their food!" "Absolutely not!" I groaned.

Unfortunately and clearly, Rebecca was interested and excited. "Come on, Arielle, it's poetic justice!"

"It's also illegal, don't do that!" I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Argh, why am I even surprised?"

They both grinned at me, unapologetic.

I should have known, these two are impossible.