The Joke 8

Chapter 8 

After the sugar daddy was scared off by the donkey bray, Bella Rose’s live–streaming career froze completely. 

The internet was flooded with memes and ridicule: “Clucking Bust,” “Donkey Queen,” “Human Alarm System.” 

Desperate and cornered, she clutched at her last lifeline–Michael Carter. 

Even though the squeaky–chicken fiasco at the charity gala had left him traumatized and eager to avoid her, Bella clung on with obsessive desperation. 

She bombarded him with calls, pathetic texts, even camped outside his office, crying and begging. 

Maybe it was a lingering attachment to an old flame. 

Maybe it was sunk–cost fallacy. 

Maybe it was nothing more than lust clouding his judgment. 

Whatever it was, Michael’s flimsy defenses crumbled under her tearful pleading and coy whining. 

They arranged to meet in a cheap, hidden couples‘ theater, hoping to rekindle old flames in the dark. 

But every step of this was already under my control. 

From the very first month I discovered his affair, I had a private investigator plant spyware in his phone. 

Every raunchy text, every hotel booking–everything synced in real time to my encrypted cloud. 

And that couple’s theater? One of my anonymous investments. Every room was fitted with state–of–the–art voice–activated cameras. 

Inside that booth, just the two of them. 

As Michael leaned in, distracted and half–hearted, Bella flinched nervously. 

They inched closer. 

Then his elbow–without warning–rammed into her freshly “repaired,” still hypersensitive chest. 

“Oink–oink–squeal!!” 

The shrill, warped squeal ripped through the cramped room like a piglet being strangled. 

“Triple Kill!” 

In the monitoring room, I couldn’t resist whispering a cheer. 

The sultry atmosphere evaporated instantly. 

Onscreen, Michael froze like he’d been electrocuted. His head jerked up, eyes flooding with absurdity, shame; and visceral disgust. 

He recoiled half a meter, instinctively repulsed, as if facing a filthy monster. 

Whatever flicker of desire had remained was snuffed out completely. 

Bella stared at him blankly. And in the eyes of the man she valued most, she finally saw the one verdict deadlier than public ridicule- 

utter rejection. 

The body she once flaunted with pride was now nothing but a grotesque deformity, 

That moment broke her. She collapsed in the filthy booth, a hollow shell. 

That night, Michael returned home like a walking corpse, collapsing on the couch, face ashen. 

He avoided my gaze, not realizing the hidden cameras had captured everything in perfect detail. 

He knew who was pulling the strings, but had no proof. 

Only the grotesque pig squeal replayed in his mind, a nightmarish echo he couldn’t shut out. 

Vhapter 8 

100.00% 

Bella vanished entirely from the public eye, her mental state in tatters. 

The time was ripe. 

I slapped the divorce papers–drawn up long ago by a top law firm–onto the table in front of Michael. 

The terms were brutally clear: 

Screenshots of every chat between him and Bella, every hotel receipt, every thermal imaging photo of their trysts. 

Custody of our child, the prime downtown apartment, most of our savings, and his stock options–all to me. 

He was left with one old car and a token severance payment. 

And, as the final humiliation, he had to personally escort Bella to a plastic surgery clinic, pay for the removal of her infamous implants, and cover every cent of the corrective procedures. 

Michael’s fingers whitened as he clutched the contract, his face flushing from red to purple. “Lena Harper! You… you’re ruthless! This is impossible! It’s extortion, I-” 

Before he could finish, I calmly slid my phone from my purse. 

The screen lit up. 

A carefully edited audio file played on speaker, soft but resonant as a death knell in the empty living room: 

Cluck-! The charity gala’s infamous recording, crowd noise roaring behind it. 

Hee–hawww-! The donkey bray from the VIP suite, shrill and raw. 

Oink–oink–squeal!! The piglet squeal from the theater booth. 

Looped seamlessly, echoing. 

Expressionless, I tilted the screen toward his ghostly face. My tone was even, without a hint of emotion. 

“Michael, if you refuse, no problem. I don’t mind playing this little soundtrack at your family dinner. Or maybe at your company’s anniversary gala.” 

I tapped the screen lightly. 

“Unique audio. One of a kind. I’m sure your parents and colleagues will never forget it.” 

The hellish cacophony stabbed his eardrums, boring into his skull. 

Michael’s mind flashed with images: the blinding flashes of the gala, the grotesque bray in the club, the nauseating squeal in the theater. 

And worse–the thought of these sounds blasting in front of his parents, or echoing through a glittering banquet hall. 

That would be true damnation. 

Terror crushed anger and shame. 

Overwhelmed, he broke. 

Hands shaking violently, he snatched the pen and scrawled his warped signature across the contract. 

From the first day he cheated, every move had been one of my chess pieces–placed perfectly. 

Daily reports from the private investigator. 

The live feeds from Dr. Harris’s OR. 

Even the dossiers on every would–be sponsor Bella tried to seduce–sorted neatly by my legal team. When Michael signed, he had no idea how many more cards I still held that could end him forever. 

And before the ink even dried, their sordid chats, hotel logs, and censored illicit photos began to spread like wildfire across gossip 

nepter 8 

100.00% 

accounts. 

The best was yet to come. 

A new headline stormed the internet: 

“Scumbag Escorts Clucking Queen Back to Flatland, Pays Every Penny.” 

The photos were crystal clear: Michael in mask and cap, but his eyes betrayed his misery, dragging a pale, broken Bella into the clinic like a prisoner under guard. 

#HusbandOfTheYear #RedemptionTrip 

The nation roared with laughter. 

One became the internet’s eternal joke. 

The other–socially dead. 

Epilogue 

I got far more than I ever expected. 

Bella Rose? With her implants removed, she vanished from public life. 

Michael Carter? Broke, disgraced, stripped of title and reputation, shunned in his own circle like a rat in the gutter. 

As for me? 

I sold the house and everything tied to the past. 

With my child by my side, wearing a perfectly cut vacation dress, I boarded a first–class flight to the Côte d’Azur. 

Outside the window, clouds drifted gently. 

The sunlight was perfect. 

A new journey had begun.; 

B