The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 112: Back To The Real World?

The moment Isabella finally sat upright and blinked her very-much-alive eyes, the set turned into chaos.

"I told you she was fine!" someone shouted.

"Cut! CUT! Someone get a medic!"

"Did she really say demon rabbit?!"

Isabella rubbed her temple like an old woman with eight loud grandchildren. "Can everyone stop yelling? I’m not deaf. I just passed out."

Rachel shoved a bottle of overpriced mineral water into her hand like it was the elixir of life. "You literally scared the soul out of me, Bella. You screamed, staggered back, pointed to the ceiling, and then just—timber!"

"Like a tree?"

"Like a Disney princess in a poisoned apple scene!"

Before Isabella could even roll her eyes, the producer, that high-strung lady in a pencil skirt and stress wrinkles, clapped her hands like they were in kindergarten.

"Okay! That’s enough excitement for one day! We’re wrapping up early. People, pack up your things—shooting’s done!"

Everyone froze.

"Huh?"

"What?"

"We still have five scenes!"

"She’s going to an award show tomorrow!" the producer snapped. "Nominated for Best Actress in an Ongoing Streamed Drama Series, remember? We can’t risk her turning up looking like a dead fish!"

Isabella blinked. "I am?"

The woman gave her a pointed stare. "Is something wrong with your brain? Yes, darling. Red carpet. Photographers. Your team has been prepping for a week."

Isabella tried to laugh it off. "Right. I knew that. I was just testing you."

"Uh-huh."

The crew began scattering like ants after someone stomped their hill. Lights off. Cameras packed. Someone tripped over a mic cord. The fake moon prop rolled into a bush.

Rachel helped her to her feet. "Come on, love. You need to eat something. And sleep."

"No arguments there," Isabella mumbled, still feeling that strange tug in her chest. Like something was... wrong.

Like she’d left something behind.

Someone.

---

By the time she walked off set and toward the parking lot, golden hour was painting the sky like it was made for her Instagram.

Her iconic pink car sat in its usual VIP parking spot—shiny, spotless, sparkly like her soul. And there, standing beside the open back door, was a familiar figure.

Isabella gasped.

"RICO?!"

Her driver turned, eyebrows rising. "Young Miss?"

She ran up and hugged him like he was a long-lost teddy bear. "Oh my God, I missed you so much! You’re real! You’re actually real!"

The man, who had endured ten years of her chaos, blinked slowly and patted her back with the awkwardness of a dad dealing with his child’s first heartbreak. "I... have always been real, Young Miss."

She pulled back, eyes wide. "Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I fought rabbits. I froze. I almost got roasted. And now I’m here and I don’t even know if I like it—"

"Young Miss," he said gently, "do I really have to keep driving you around in this ridiculous pink car?"

She gasped like he had slapped her with a silk glove. "Excuse you? This car is iconic. Do you know how many influencers have tried to steal this aesthetic from me?"

He just gave her a look. You know, that teary grandpa look of silent judgment and long-suffering.

Isabella flipped her hair, climbed into the back seat like a royal, and muttered, "People with no taste shouldn’t speak."

---

The drive to her mansion was filled with oddly silent roads and oddly loud thoughts.

She should’ve been relieved. She was back. The world made sense again. No handsome beastmen. No freezing huts. No more dirty water.

And yet...

Her chest felt hollow.

She stared at her reflection in the car window. The lip gloss was perfect, the eyeliner sharp, but she didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

Why did it feel like she didn’t belong here anymore?

---

"YOUNG MISS IS HOME!"

The moment her feet touched the marble floor of her grand entrance, the staff lined up like an army waiting to bow to their general.

Someone popped confetti.

Someone else hit a button and "Welcome Home, Queen" played on the surround sound.

Her butler handed her a glass of cucumber water like it was a sacred ritual.

She was home.

She was rich.

She was fabulous.

She was... weirdly empty inside?

"Young Miss, your bubble bath is ready!"

"Your face masks are chilled!"

"Do you want the chamomile tea that helps with award show nerves?"

Isabella smiled, nodded, posed a little, and ascended the white spiral staircase like a queen in a music video.

No sign of her mom. Or her dad. Or her brother.

They were probably off doing something important, which wasn’t new. She was used to being the glittery accessory in a busy family of CEOs and politicians.

But still... a girl could dream, right?

She entered her bedroom—which looked less like a Barbie castle and more like the throne room of a 21-year-old heiress who unapologetically believed the world revolved around her.

Pink walls—but make it designer blush.

Gold trim so shiny it reflected her cheekbones.

A life-sized unicorn plush stood by her vanity like her emotional support bestie. Yes, it had its own tiara. No, she wasn’t joking.

She stripped off her costume like it personally offended her, slid into her silk pajamas—custom, obviously—and glided through her skincare routine with the speed and precision of someone who knew she was her own brand.

Double cleanse. Toner. Serum. Eye cream. Lip mask. Pillow mist.

She had enough products to open a boutique and the face of someone who never paid full price for anything, ever.

And still, when she collapsed into her cloud-like bed, surrounded by feather pillows and luxury drama, all she could think was:

This better be a dream.

Because if this was real...

Then why did her soul feel like it was still there?

---

She rolled onto her side, hugging her sequined throw pillow like a teddy bear. She missed Glimora. She missed that annoying snake man and his brooding stares. She missed the chaos. The cold. The weird tension. The way it all felt like it mattered.

Now, everything was too quiet.

Too polished.

Too... fake.

Even with ten pillows and 1,000 thread-count sheets, she couldn’t sleep.

Please let this be a dream, she whispered into the darkness.