CHAPTER 253: CHAPTER 253 MISERY

Instead, he stopped at the side of the bed, towering over her. "Wait for me," he said, his voice low and commanding, though there was an undertone of care buried beneath the steel. "I’ll come back soon."

Before she could respond, he turned and strode out of the room, the door closing with a heavy click that left silence behind.

Bella let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her shoulders slumped as she sank into the pillows, her heart thudding erratically.

Oh, thank God, she thought, pressing her palm to her chest. His eyes had been so intense just now—too sharp, too knowing. If he had asked her directly about what she was hiding, about what she could really do with computers, she wasn’t sure how she would have answered without exposing everything.

The room suddenly felt larger without his presence, but also colder. She pulled the blanket up around herself, nibbling on her lip as a small, uneasy smile tugged at her mouth.

After a while, there was a soft knock at the door before it opened. A woman in her mid-thirties stepped inside, dressed neatly in a white coat with a medical kit in hand. "Mrs. Moretti? I was asked to examine you," she said politely, her voice calm.

Bella hesitated but then nodded, tugging at the hem of her dress nervously. The doctor’s kind eyes reassured her, and she sat at the edge of the bed, pulling the fabric up just enough to reveal the back of her leg.

The woman’s brows knitted the moment she saw it. A deep red bruise had formed, an angry imprint where Sherly’s sharp heel had struck. "That looks painful," the doctor murmured, carefully touching the area. Bella winced despite trying to stay still.

Doctor opened her kit, cleaned the area with cool antiseptic, and gently applied a soothing cream that stung for a moment before easing into relief. She then wrapped the leg lightly with a soft bandage to protect the bruise.

"This will heal," the doctor said in a reassuring tone. "But you must avoid standing for too long, no sudden strain. If you feel swelling or sharp pain, apply a cold compress and keep the leg elevated when possible." She paused, her voice softening. "Rest, Mrs. Moretti. That’s the most important."

Bella nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

Just then, another shadow fell across the doorway. One of Leo’s bodyguards stepped inside, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression sharp as he surveyed the room. He said nothing, but the way he positioned himself near the door told Bella exactly why he was there.

Leo sent him.

Her heart gave a small jump. He wasn’t here, but his presence still lingered, controlling, protective, impossible to ignore.

Bella lowered her gaze to the bandaged leg, pressing her lips together. She couldn’t tell if she should feel annoyed at being guarded even in private or quietly warmed by the fact that Leo didn’t leave her entirely alone.

After the doctor finished giving her medicine to apply, she quietly left. The bodyguard, too, stepped out and waited outside her door. Left alone, Bella finally lay back and drifted into sleep.

***

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the atmosphere was far from glamorous. Piles of dirty pans were stacked haphazardly, the floor was sticky with spilled sauces, and half-empty trays of food were scattered everywhere. Stella stood in the middle of the chaos, holding a mop like it was some alien weapon.

Her beautiful black gown, which had turned heads just hours ago, was now tucked up awkwardly at her knees to avoid stains. Her manicured nails trembled as she tried to wring out a cloth, and her diamond bracelet clinked against the mop handle in the most unflattering way possible.

"Scrub harder! Do you think this mess will clean itself, girl?" barked the head chef, a stout old man with a voice like thunder. He pointed at the greasy floor with his ladle. "Over there—look at that stain! My kitchen should shine, not look like pigsty!"

Stella’s face turned red. No one—absolutely no one—had dared speak to her like that before. Her teeth ground together as she crouched down, scrubbing furiously.

Meanwhile, at the small kitchen window, Casper leaned casually against the frame, holding up his phone. On the screen, Jay was sprawled comfortably on his bed, laughing so hard he nearly fell off.

"Bro! Look at her face—oh my god, she looks like a maid from some village drama!" Jay wheezed through his laughter, clutching his stomach.

"Wait, wait—look!" Casper whispered dramatically as Stella accidentally slipped, nearly falling face-first into a bucket of dirty water. She barely caught herself, but the mop went flying, splattering her gown with soapy suds.

Jay was now crying with laughter, pounding his pillow. "Priceless! Absolutely priceless!!"

Hearing Jay’s laughter through the window, Stella whipped her head around, her face burning with humiliation. When she saw Casper recording her, her fury doubled.

"You—stop it! Don’t you dare film me!" she shrieked, waving the wet cloth in his direction.

But Casper only grinned wider. "Smile, Stella. You’re the star of tonight’s real show."

*****

While Stella was miserably battling the greasy kitchen, Sherly’s situation in the grand hall was no less humiliating.

The beautiful marble floor, which had sparkled earlier beneath crystal chandeliers, was now littered with crumbs, spilled wine, confetti, and half-eaten canapés. Sherly, once draped in pride and arrogance, was now crouched on the ground in her elegant gown, forced to pick up trash like a servant. Her designer heels clicked angrily every time she stomped, her manicured fingers trembling with rage as she bent down to pick up greasy napkins.

Every crumpled tissue she collected felt like a slap to her pride. Every stain she wiped made her blood boil hotter.

Her misery only deepened when her so-called "best friends," who had once cheered her every snide remark, now stood on the sidelines with wine glasses in hand, whispering and smirking.

"Sherly... do you want help?" one of them asked in a sickly sweet voice, holding back laughter.

Another added with a snort, "You missed a spot right there, sweetheart. Oh, and there—oh, careful, don’t stain that pretty gown."

For Sherly, their voices weren’t offers of kindness. They were daggers, each word dripping with mockery.

Her face flushed crimson as she snapped, "I don’t need your help!" She grabbed a mop from the corner so violently that the bucket tipped, splashing dirty water across her own dress. Gasps and muffled laughter followed from the crowd of onlookers.