Villainess Marked For Her Alpha-Chapter 52: I Am Not a Cat!

Platters arrived in orchestrated elegance under the chandelier’s golden flicker—the waiter gliding soundless as a shadow, balancing domed silver salvers that he unveiled with theatrical flourish, steam curling aromatic into the booth’s velvet hush.

Emily’s lobster thermidor gleamed first—plump claws nestled in creamy cognac sauce, bubbling beneath a golden gratin crust flecked parmesan, accompanied by her heirloom tomato gazpacho—ruby-chilled orbs in frosted bowls, basil oil pearling iridescent atop microgreen wisps.

"Wow, it looks really good!" Emily’s mouth watered just by looking at her food.

Hellen’s wagyu tartare mounded pristine ruby towers, hand-cut flecks crowned with a single quail yolk golden and runny, crisp brioche points fanned beside for scooping.

"I am glad that you liked this place." Hellen’s eyes softened at Emily’s nod. It wasn’t really an apology. This place was hers—no one knew about this fact, expect the manager. This place was very significant for her.

"Well, I liked your apology the most."

Bordeaux poured deeper from a fresh bottle, ruby legs trailing slow down balloon stems as forks pierced first bites—lobster melting buttery-rich and succulent on Emily’s tongue, cognac tang blooming warm; tartare exploding umami-salt-earth under Hellen’s, yolk bursting velvety as she savoured deliberate.

Quartet’s music drifted a soft, caressing veil into their ears—violin sighs weaving languid with cello’s deep purr, Strauss waltzes laced subtle jazz undertones humming like distant ocean waves caressing moonlit shore, the booth wrapped in intimate hush while envious glances from nearby tables faded to appreciative blur.

"I still feel weird, okay? They have paid money too."

"I have paid more than them."

’In fact, I own this place. If I wanted to, I can kick them out. These people hold no meaning for me, except the woman in front of me.’ This was the very place her father bought after he had met her mother for the first time. This place was the living dedication of her father’s love for her mother.

Suddenly, something entered Emily’s head as gave Hellen a proactive gaze.

"How do you like that thing?" Emily asked between gazpacho sips, spoon tinkling delicate against frosted porcelain, emerald eyes narrowing playful mischief over the bowl’s rim, floral maxi shifting silk-soft as she leaned an inch closer, cheeks still holding paparazzi flush.

"What thing?" What was Emily talking about?

"That day, you sent me a photo of that of yours." When Emily saw that image, she literally stopped herself from puking her guts out. She had waited for a perfect opportunity like this to confront Hellen about that image.

Hellen paused mid-tartare forkful, eyes arching one brow high, blonde ponytail swaying faint as yolk glistened on her lips. "You mean the garlic-ginger paste mixed in water? Not chugging that now—dinner’s too sacred for home remedies. I had sent that because you were curious about my drink." It was her mother’s recipe. After being forced to drink that water regularly as a kid, she developed a habit of starting her day with drinking that specific water in the morning.

"Remedies?"

"Yes, Emily."

Emily pouted her full lips dramatic and theatrical, maxi pooling deeper around thighs as she propped elbows on starched linen, floral scent blooming faint amid rising tides of wine, seafood brine, and truffle whispers. "Your breath will smell awful later—ruins the afterglow."

"I chug that immunity sludge at home only." Hellen smirked slow, spearing another ruby fleck, yolk bursting rich and custardy as she chewed savouring, ponytail brushing blazer collar. "Ever caught it on my breath? Morning coffee haze?"

"No. Your breath always smells fresh," Emily conceded grudging, spoon chasing a glossy basil pearl through gazpacho’s chill tang, cheeks pinking deeper candle-gold under the quartet’s sway.

"Then why worry your pretty head?" Hellen’s voice dipped teasing velvet rumble, fork clinking soft against China, wine glass cradling loose in her free hand.

"Okay, fine." Emily swirled her spoon languid, gazpacho vortex pulling the pearl under. "What about your workouts? Dawn runs in pouring rain, weights till your arms scream—brutal routine. Utterly insane."

"My arms never scream, Emily."

"Why do you even exercise? You are already so fit."

"Keeps me fit as steel." Hellen flexed one arm subtle under the navy blazer’s sleeve, corded muscle rippling faint and defined—alpha pride glinting raw in ice-blue eyes, smirk widening. "I can handle factory chaos, prototype crises... and you wriggling like a kitten out my hugs. Every drop of sweat? Worth it."

"Do you have to say that?" Emily whispered, blushing like a tomato. Was Hellen a killer?

She had almost killed her ego more than ten times even before it could grow.

"What? I lift you as if you have no weight. Even a dumbbell has more weight than you. If I don’t keep myself fit, I won’t be able to lift you. Besides, it’s quite fun to carry you while you act like a cat."

"I am not a cat!"

"Who knows?"

"I am not!" Emily shot back, cheeks flaring hotter under the candlelight, spoon clattering emphatic against her gazpacho bowl as she straightened in the sapphire booth, floral maxi rustling soft protest.

Emerald eyes flashed defiant, full lips pursing into an indignant pout that only amplified her flush.

Hellen’s eyes darkened as she took in Emily’s image. She wanted to eat those lips—kiss the hell out of them.

"What if you’re hiding as a cat?" Hellen teased, gaze dancing wicked mischief, blonde ponytail swaying as she leaned forward elbows on linen, fork twirling idle through wagyu remnants.

Her smirk deepened predatory, voice dipping playful gravel—alpha spark flaring just for Emily’s squirm. All of her instincts were saying to knot Emily senseless right in front of everyone. Alpha or not—she didn’t care.

"I AM NOT!"

"All those Helly Paws prototypes? Secretly for you—catnip hoodies, cozy blankets. Admit it—you’re my favourite test subject, purring under scratches."

"You tickled me! You played like an evil woman! Attacking me unfairly!"

"Did I? You should admit that you are a cat, Emily."

Emily huffed laughter-scandalized, maxi shifting as she kicked Hellen’s shin light under the tablecloth, quartet’s violin sigh underscoring the banter like velvet applause. "As if! I’d claw your eyes first—rude alpha!"