Chapter 4
One week later.
I was lounging on the sofa, scrolling my phone, when I stumbled across a notification–Bella Rose was livestreaming.
So soon after surgery?
She’s really risking her life for views.
I smirked and tapped into her stream.
On screen, she wore the same overfilled influencer face, but her complexion had a sickly pallor.
She wore in a loose satin robe, neckline coyly tugged open just a touch, but her movements were stiff, especially above the waist–every gesture careful, hesitant.
“Babies! I missed you sooo much!”
Her voice was syrupy soft, pitched a couple notches higher than usual.
“Sorry I disappeared for a few days. I was, um, abroad for a full checkup. The doctor said I’ve been overdoing it, so I had to rest!”
The chat exploded with brain–dead praise:
“Take care of yourself, queen!”
“Our babe works so hard!”
“You look skinnier… poor thing!”
A full–body checkup? Rest cure?
I snorted, hitting screen record.
She could lie with a straight face.
Midstream, she tried to show off some new skincare samples, lifted her arm–and there it was.
Her brows pinched tight; her breath hitching as pain rippled through her chest.
She quickly set the jar down and grabbed a lighter bottle–handling it withexaggerated care.
The chat noticed.
“Babe, what’s wrong with your arm?”
“Why does she look so stiff?”
Bella plastered on a sugary smile. “Oh, it’s nothing, just a little shoulder strain. Still healing, don’t worry!”
But the best part was yet to come.
Near the end of the stream, she leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Babies, I have the most exciting news ever!”
Her eyes sparkled under the ring light.
‘ve been invited to the Hawthorne Foundation Charity Gala at the Crown Hotel at the end of the month! The official invitation is already in my inbox!”
She preened like a peacock unfurling its tail.
Watching her forget the pain in her chest as she bragged, I nearly laughed out loud.
Official invitation?
Please. I’d seen the sender list. “Bella Rose
લી
–
sent by Michael Carter’s assistant.”
50.00%
The comments went wild.
“OMG! That’s huge!”
“The Hawthorne Gala? Only VIPs get in!”
“Our queen’s gonna slay the red carpet!”
Bella basked in it, her vanity practically glowing through the screen.
She arched her chest to show her curves, then flinched and stiffened again.
“Yes! End of the month! At the Crown Hotel! It’s a real high–society event!”
Her voice climbed with excitement.
“I can’t wait to put on my new couture and show you guys. Just picture me on that red carpet, stunning the whole crowd! This is the moment my fans have been waiting for!”
She kept babbling, painting a fantasy of flashbulbs, A–list celebrities, and luxury brand deals.
“Don’t forget,” she winked at the camera, “tune in and cheer me on!”
I stared at that smag, overpainted face, listening to her daydream about being the star of the night.
And instead of anger, I felt a thrill of amusement.
A month after surgery, her chest nerves would still be swollen, sensitive, unstable. The implants barely settled.
One tight, corseted gown, sky–high stilettos, velvet carpet underfoot… add a hall full of cameras.
What could possibly go wrong?
Bella, your vanity really is going to kill you.
And I, for one, couldn’t wait to watch.
I closed the live with a smile and dialed a number.
