The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 115: Smile, Isabella. Don’t let them see you falter

Chapter 115: Chapter 115: Smile, Isabella. Don’t let them see you falter

Meanwhile, in the freezing room. Only Kian, Cyrus, and Glimora were now around. The rest couldn’t stay any longer due to the cold.

Kian sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, indifferent to the chill that seemed to pierce through the room. Cyrus, however, was pushing himself harder, his breath visible in the freezing air as he worked to keep the healing spell on Isabella.

The room was eerily quiet and tense, the silence broken only by Isabella’s soft murmurs as she slept.

"Almost... don’t stop, just a little more... harder, yes, that’s it..."

Kian’s eyes flickered open, his expression as still as ever. But when he glanced at Cyrus’s frozen posture, something like a flicker of... discomfort passed over his features. His gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual, noting how the man’s back had stiffened. Cyrus was flushed—no, he was practically glowing red, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he tried to focus on his work.

Cyrus cleared his throat, but his voice was tight. "She’s just—just in a deep healing sleep. It’s nothing... nothing like—"

Kian stared at him, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. His usual emotionless mask remained in place, but there was something sharp in his stare now, like he was keenly aware of what had just slipped from Isabella’s lips. He turned his gaze back to the frozen space in front of him, his tone even, but carrying an edge. "Focus. The task is simple, Cyrus. No room for distractions."

Cyrus snapped his attention back to Isabella’s frail form, trying to push away the unnecessary thoughts that had somehow gotten tangled in his mind. His face was still burning, but he forced himself to continue the healing, his hands steadying just slightly.

Kian’s gaze was cool, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. He could feel the tension radiating off Cyrus—too much focus on what shouldn’t be in the air.

Kian’s gaze flicked briefly to Cyrus, noting the man’s discomfort. So even the calm ones crack, he thought, though he didn’t say a word.

Cyrus’s attempts to concentrate only faltered for a moment before he exhaled a slow breath and muttered under his breath, almost to himself, "I don’t know why this... why this is so difficult."

"I do," Kian replied flatly, his voice devoid of inflection. He didn’t need to say more. He knew Cyrus was caught in the web of his own thoughts.

Kian’s gaze flicked briefly to Glimora, who sat quietly in the corner, her eyes fixed on the two of them. Her tail flicked lazily, but her expression remained neutral—silent, as always.

She didn’t make a sound, yet the tension in the room thickened with each of Isabella’s murmurs. The air felt heavier, and Kian couldn’t shake the feeling that even the pet was aware of the awkwardness, watching them with those unblinking eyes.

Cyrus adjusted his stance, shaking his head slightly to clear his mind. The cold was biting, yes, but it wasn’t just that. The sound of Isabella’s voice lingered in the space around them, and for a moment, everything felt off-kilter.

Kian watched him for a few moments longer, noting how his calm, composed exterior was cracking just a little. But he said nothing, his face as unreadable as ever. He knew better than to comment on it.

The silence settled again, broken only by the slow, steady rhythm of Cyrus’s breath as he worked.

But as Isabella’s murmurs continued, Kian’s gaze slid to the side. There was something about this moment—about Cyrus’s struggle—that made him wonder if it was all truly just the healing. Or something else entirely.

But he didn’t say anything more. He never did.

It would pass. It always did.

BACK WITH ISABELLA

The limo doors opened with a soft hiss, and Isabella stepped out.

The floodlights blinded her, the rapid-fire flashes of cameras catching every inch of her as she stepped onto the red carpet.

Perfect. She gave her best smile, the one she knew the world expected—sweet, radiant, confident.

Her corset hugged her waist tightly, the silk of her gown shimmering with every movement.

"Isabella! Over here!" a reporter called, microphone in hand.

A camera zoomed in on her, and she hit pause, posing with a smile. Her heels clicked, echoing through the noise of the crowd.

"I love you, Isabella!" someone yelled from the sidelines. She glanced over, her eyes scanning the sea of faces.

"I love you too," she replied, breathless but perfect, voice smooth as velvet. Her gaze flicked past them, moving to the next person in line, the next shot to take.

The crowd screamed louder, but her smile didn’t falter. This is what I do. She was the star. The center of it all. She had it all under control.

"Isabella, who are you wearing tonight?" another voice shouted.

"Alistair Lorne," she answered instantly, her voice melodic, practiced. "He’s an artist, a genius." She winked.

Her lips curved into a smile again, and it was as if the world paused for just a second, waiting for her next move.

A fan screamed, "You’re the best!" and Isabella caught their gaze. Eyes glowing, hope in every blink.

Isabella paused as she took in the energy around her, then she turned to the fan.

"I’m just here for the fans," she replied, her tone saccharine sweet, perfectly rehearsed. I’m here for them. I have to be.

But her chest tightened a little as she faced the next barrage of questions. Another, closer fan cried, "Isabella, you’re so gorgeous! I can’t believe you’re real!"

And then, for a split second, the weight of it all hit her. She froze, just for a moment.

The glimmering gown. The flashing lights. The fans. The fame. She blinked, as the crowd cheered around her, her smile still perfect, her heart pounding.

What is this?

For the first time in years, something inside her tugged. She felt... detached. The old excitement for these moments, the thrill of being the center of attention—it wasn’t there.

A little voice whispered in the back of her mind—this isn’t the world you belong to anymore.

Her heart skipped. Was it? The fame, the glitz, the glam—was it enough anymore? She had always chased this.

She loved being adored, (which she still did obviously, but that wasn’t the point). She thrived under the lights. But now?

Now she was just—numb.

She posed again, forced her smile even brighter, her eyes scanning the reporters with perfect poise. "Thank you, darling!" she said to another question. But it all felt... hollow.

The fans shouted her name again, their voices blending together in a chaotic chorus. Her eyes flicked back to the grand entrance, to the distant doors she would soon walk through. She smiled, waved, but—

I want to go back.

To the quiet of the beastworld. To my Shelia’s

loudness, to Opehlia’s playfulness. The way the air always smelled like the sea and fresh rain. The warmth of their bodies, the sound of their voices. What was it about the world of beasts that pulled me so strongly?

She couldn’t focus on it now. Not with all these eyes on her, not with the cameras tracking her every move. Not with all of this waiting for her to stay perfect.

Her smile wavered for a split second, barely noticeable to anyone but her.

What would they think if they knew? If they knew how she was craving that raw, animalistic world again, the world she had left behind.

The world where nothing was fake.

A voice pulled her back into the moment. "Isabella, over here!" She snapped her focus back to the present, forcing her smile wider. The flashing lights didn’t stop, the cheers didn’t quiet. But inside, a strange hollowness bloomed.

She kept moving. Step, step, smile. Smile, Isabella. Don’t let them see you falter.