The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 117: She doesn’t like her food cold

The crowd exploded in cheers. Cameras zoomed in. Her name was shouted. A spotlight hit her like a punch.

She stood up. Smiled. Stepped carefully in her heels. Hugged Lana in a totally fake way. Blew a kiss to someone she didn’t recognize. Walked down the aisle as the applause swallowed her whole.

Everything was loud.

And yet inside her chest?

Dead silence.

She climbed the steps to the stage. Took the heavy, stupid award statue from the presenter. Posed with her teeth showing. Her brain whispered this isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t right.

She stepped up to the mic.

"Wow," she said, voice sweet and even. "Thank you so much. This means... everything."

Lies.

"I want to thank the cast, the crew, the fans..."

Lies.

"And of course, my team—especially my stylist, who made sure I could still breathe in this corset."

Fake laugh. Pause for clapping. Eyes glassy.

Somewhere deep inside, she felt the beastworld pull. Like a tether yanking her soul back to where she belonged.

"I, um..." Her voice wavered.

She stared into the crowd. All those perfect faces. All those perfect teeth. All those perfectly empty eyes.

It suddenly felt too cold, like there was ice in her bones. She wanted to scream.

But instead, she smiled wider.

"Thank you," she said. "I think I need to go cry into some champagne now."

The crowd laughed.

She held up the trophy like it was a joke.

Isabella stood on the stage, the glimmering lights blinding her for a second. The trophy felt heavier in her hands than it had ever been—like it was mocking her, laughing at her. She held it up to the audience, the whole room full of stars, writers, directors, critics—all clapping, cheering.

For a moment, it felt surreal. They couldn’t possibly understand what was happening to her. Could they?

She was on top of the world. The best actress, standing in front of them all. The ovation was deafening, the smiles fake, the camera flashes blinding. She was still holding the trophy, grinning through gritted teeth.

And then she felt it.

A sharp pain in her chest, sudden and cold, like ice spiking through her heart.

She looked down.

Blood. Fresh, hot blood, blooming on her dress in a slow wave. Red staining the sparkling fabric, dripping down in a disgusting, steady rhythm. The pain spread outward, numbness pooling in her limbs.

She blinked, dazed, disoriented, trying to breathe, but the crowd kept laughing, clapping, as if nothing was wrong. They were all still applauding, still smiling, their faces warped in the bright lights.

But Isabella felt it—the quiet distance between herself and them. She opened her mouth, struggling to speak. Her voice was raw, trembling.

"What is wrong with all of you? I was just shot. I’m dying," she rasped, each word thick with disbelief.

But no one heard her. Or worse, they didn’t care. They just kept clapping. Still laughing.

Her vision blurred. Blood was pooling around her feet, staining the stage, but the audience? They didn’t even flinch. The applause didn’t stop. The smiles didn’t waver.

She felt herself sway, her legs giving way beneath her, but her eyes were still wide open. She was sinking. Falling. Her body weightless, pulled by gravity and something darker, deeper than the pain. Her world tilted, and the faces blurred into a fog of colors and sounds she couldn’t understand.

The bright lights dimmed.

Her legs buckled. Her knees hit the stage floor with a sickening thud.

And still, they clapped.

But Isabella couldn’t hear it anymore. The blood pounding in her ears drowned it out, the world growing smaller, quieter.

That’s when she saw it. The goat. The same damn goat. Standing right in front of her, its hooves clicking on the floor with a sense of finality. Its eyes gleamed with a mischievous, almost sinister light. It smiled, wide and knowing, as if it had seen this all before.

The clapping faded away, becoming nothing more than a distant echo, like the last strains of a forgotten song. Everything around her dissolved, like a painting being washed away in the rain. It was quiet now. Calm. A perfect stillness, the world slipping away until only the goat remained.

"You’re finally ready," the goat said, its voice smooth, almost mocking, yet strangely comforting. There was an odd warmth in its tone, as if it found her confusion amusing, or perhaps inevitable. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Isabella’s mind swam with fog, her body growing heavier with each passing second. Her fingers loosened, and the trophy slipped from her hand, clinking against the stage in a sound that seemed to echo forever, though she couldn’t feel it anymore.

Ready for what? Ready to die?

She wanted to scream, to shout at it, but her body betrayed her. All she could manage was a breathless sigh, the words stuck in her throat, lost in the dizziness.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the weight of the world seemed to crush her. The pain, the confusion, everything faded. Only the pull of unconsciousness remained, gentle and unyielding.

The darkness beckoned, soothing and endless. The pain vanished, leaving behind a quiet, peaceful nothingness.

The last thing she heard was the goat’s voice, soft and final.

"Sleep now, Isabella."

And then... she was gone.

"It’s been hours, brother!" Shelia complained, pulling the animal hide tighter around her shoulders, trying to ward off the chill that had long settled into her bones. The cold seemed to cut deeper now, making her wonder how her brother and this strange snake-man, Cyrus, had managed to stay in the room all day without freezing. "I can’t stand it any longer. We can barely even feel our fingers."

Kian didn’t respond. He just stood still, his gaze locked on Isabella. The cold didn’t seem to faze him, though his jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed with concern. He knew Cyrus was doing something dangerous, but he also knew it was the only option. The silence stretched on, thick with tension.

"Yes, it has," Ophelia sighed, her voice heavy with frustration. "When will she wake up? I made soup, and it’s getting cold." She bit her lip, glancing at the bowl she’d placed by the fire. The steam had long since dissipated. The thought of their friend lying there, unconscious, kept gnawing at her.

"She doesn’t like her food cold," Luca added, his voice as deadpan as always, but there was an underlying concern in his tone that couldn’t be ignored. "And trust me, I’ve seen her refuse it before. She can be... particular."