CHAPTER 228: SHE LOOKS BAD

Meanwhile, Anna returned to the set, feeling far more refreshed than she had that morning. But the moment she stepped into the hallway leading to the studios, she froze.

Because the first person she saw was Fiona.

Or rather—what was left of her.

Fiona looked like a ghost that crawled out of a ditch. Hair frizzy, mascara smudged, neck stiff, and dark circles heavy under her eyes. She walked as if every muscle in her body had filed a complaint.

"She looks bad," Anna muttered under her breath.

"She asked for it," Kevin and Betty said in perfect unison, completely unapologetic.

Anna shot them both a look. "You two don’t even pretend to have sympathy?"

"Nope," Betty said cheerfully.

"Not even a drop," Kevin added, arms crossed.

Anna sighed, but she couldn’t argue. After hearing what Fiona had tried to do behind her back, Anna wasn’t in a generous mood either. Fiona wasn’t someone who backed off easily. Anna knew she had to play her cards smart—not fight her openly, but let Fiona trap herself with her own schemes.

And Anna had every intention of making her learn a lesson she’d never forget.

***

Meanwhile, in her changing room, Fiona limped in with her sprained neck tilted awkwardly to one side. The moment she tried to sit, pain shot through her spine.

"Ouch!" she hissed, grabbing the chair for support.

Her entire body ached—payback for spending the whole night in her broken-down car. Cold, cramped, and humiliated, she had cursed the universe until morning.

She should have checked her fuel gauge.

She should have brought blankets.

She should have thought before following people around.

But regrets aside, revenge was still burning hot in her.

Venus dragged her feet inside, looking like she had been punched repeatedly in the face. Her eyes were swollen, her expression dead. She handed Fiona her medicine without saying a word.

If she could redo her life, Venus thought bitterly, she would rather sell vegetables on the street than work for Fiona.

The entire night had been hell—listening to Fiona rant, demand massages, throw tantrums, and blame God, Anna, the car company, the weather, and even Venus for her misery.

Being her manager felt like a curse.

Fiona swallowed her pills with a glare that could have set the mirror on fire.

"That bitch," she spat, jaw tightening. "She managed to run away last night, but I swear—before the movie releases, I’m going to expose her."

Her eyes burned with resentment, her nails digging into the armrest.

"She thinks she can win? Just watch. I’ll ruin her."

Her reflection stared back—tired, disheveled, vengeful.

And Fiona smiled darkly and if that wasn’t enough a text message in her phone made her day even more better.

****

[Crossword Street]

Mariam unlocked the door with the spare key, only to be greeted by a disgusting wave of alcohol and stale smoke that slapped her straight in the face.

"God... this girl is going to ruin her life at this rate," she muttered, wrinkling her nose as she stepped inside.

The living room looked like the aftermath of a small tornado—clothes thrown over the couch, empty bottles scattered on the floor, an ashtray overflowing onto the coffee table.

She dropped the grocery bag on the kitchen counter, exhaled sharply, and hurried toward the bedroom. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from the exhaustion of dealing with Kira’s self-destruction over and over again.

Mariam pushed the bedroom door open.

There, on the tangled sheets, Kira was sprawled across the bed, half-covered by a blanket, makeup smeared across her face, hair sticking out in every possible direction. She was dead asleep—no, passed out—from the smell alone.

Mariam’s frown deepened.

The room was a disaster. Her niece’s shoes were tossed in two different corners, cigarette butts littered the floor near the window, and the faint glow of her phone screen showed dozens of missed calls and messages.

"Kira... what are you doing to yourself?" Mariam whispered, her chest tightening.

It wasn’t anger.

It was worry. Bone-deep, suffocating worry.

She stepped closer, her gaze softening for a moment at the sight of the girl she practically raised—now reduced to this.

The remenant of last night were written all over Kira’s face, and Mariam knew... if she didn’t intervene soon, the girl would fall deeper into the hole she was digging.

Meanwhile, Kira, who was in a deep, drunken sleep after spending every last note Collin had paid her on booze and cigarettes, didn’t even register that someone had entered her apartment. She slept like a rock, blissfully unaware that her aunt was standing mere steps away.

Mariam looked at her with a mixture of pity and frustration. Her niece lay sprawled across the bed, makeup smeared, hair a tangled mess, the room reeking of stale liquor and smoke. It wasn’t the image of the bright, stubborn girl she had raised—it was the image of someone slowly losing herself.

With a quiet sigh, Mariam pulled the blanket up a little to cover Kira’s shoulder before stepping back. She closed the door softly behind her, careful not to wake her.

Since Anna and Daniel hadn’t returned to the mansion the previous night, Mariam found herself with little to do. The house was quiet, almost eerily so. Wanting to make herself useful—and worried about Kira after not hearing from her for days—she decided to bring her some basic groceries and check on her.

But seeing her like this... it twisted something sharp in Mariam’s chest.

Now she had no choice but to wait. Wait for Kira to wake up. Wait for her to sober up enough to hold a proper conversation. Wait for the moment she could finally ask the question burning inside her—

"What trouble have you dragged yourself into this time?"

Because whatever it was... it was getting worse. And Mariam could feel it in her bones.

Another sigh escaped her lips as Mariam dragged her feet back into the living room. With Kira still passed out cold, there was nothing to do except wait—and clean. So she rolled up her sleeves, pushed aside the empty bottles and overflowing ashtray, and began tidying the place before refilling the small fridge in the corner.

She was halfway through wiping down the counter when the sharp chime of the doorbell cut through the silence.

Mariam stiffened.

Wiping her hands on the napkin, she headed to the door. But the moment she pulled it open, she flinched.

"Why haven’t you been answering my calls?"

The voice was harsh—accusatory.

Mariam instinctively stepped back as the man standing outside glared at her, fury burning in his eyes.