The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 153: Don’t interrupt. You’ll speak when it’s time for questions

Chapter 153: Chapter 153: Don’t interrupt. You’ll speak when it’s time for questions

Isabella carefully stepped down from Cyrus’ tail with a little wobble—part exhaustion, part dramatics—and made her way toward Kian, brushing nonexistent dust from her skirt like she was preparing for a red carpet stroll. Around her, the villagers, who had previously dispersed like startled chickens, slowly trickled back, peeking around corners and bushes to witness the newest development.

"You’re here," Isabella said, offering Kian a warm smile that managed to look completely genuine despite the swarm of things she was juggling in her head. She gestured toward the well with a sweep of her hand like she was unveiling a grand painting. "It’s done."

Kian looked at her but didn’t respond right away. His expression was unreadable as usual—somewhere between deadpan and mildly impressed, with a hint of permanent suspicion. Instead of answering, he turned and walked over to the well.

Only then did Isabella notice the two men standing beside him.

The first, Garan, practically radiated confidence—or was it delusion? A proud smile stretched across his face the moment Isabella’s eyes landed on him. He tilted his chin upward, every feather on his peacock-tribe hide robe catching the sunlight in just the right way, like he’d practiced this pose in a mirror.

Yes, Isabella was gorgeous. Everyone with working eyes could see that. But Garan, in all his sparkling-feathered glory, was convinced she’d be smitten with him on sight. After all, he was tall, well-groomed, clearly came from a big city, and had cheekbones that could probably slice through melon skin.

Naturally, she would fall at his feet. That was how it always went. Why wouldn’t it happen again? In his head, they were already mid-slow motion love story.

But Isabella... oh, Isabella.

She gave both men a quick once-over. No change in her face. No batting lashes, no stunned silence, no glowing cheeks. Just... calm indifference. She offered a sweet, tight-lipped smile—the kind that screamed: I acknowledge your existence but I could not care less—and then turned right back around and walked off after Kian like the two others weren’t even there.

Garan’s jaw nearly unhinged. His dreams? Crushed. His pride? Pummeled. His peacock feathers? Still shiny but now wilting under the weight of confusion.

Beside him, Euphim, the quiet one with eyes that always looked five steps ahead, finally cracked a smile—small, amused, and utterly satisfied.

"To be honest," Euphim said in a lazy drawl, hands behind his back, "that was refreshing."

Garan didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His pride was currently undergoing CPR and not doing well.

Meanwhile, at the well, Kian ran his hand along the rim, inspecting it with the careful eye of a man who trusted no one—not even stonework. He turned to Isabella.

"You kept your promise," he finally said.

He wasn’t surprised, not really. At first, he’d thought Isabella was strange—a little too cheerful, a little too soft, maybe even a little too dumb. But now? Now he wasn’t so sure. She’d managed to surprise him over and over again in a very short amount of time.

He didn’t feel the need to keep his guard up around her anymore.

Though... he still wasn’t convinced she wasn’t pretending to be an airhead just to make people underestimate her. Because beneath all that sugar and spice?

She was smart. And something more.

Something different.

"What are your next steps?" he asked.

"Will you fully trust me with distributing things to the village now?" Isabella asked, lifting her gaze to meet Kian’s with the softest flutter of her lashes—just enough to look innocent, but not so much that it looked rehearsed. Okay... maybe a little rehearsed.

"I already have a lot planned," she added quickly, her hands curling in front of her like she was physically holding back a flood of ideas. "And I cannot start explaining everything... Besides, action speaks louder than words."

She braced herself for the usual: a sigh, a lecture, a slow down and think, Isabella. But instead...

"Okay," Kian said with a nod, his tone flat and final. "From now on, I’ll leave things in your hands. But—you must test them in my front before distributing them to my people."

Isabella blinked. Then blinked again.

That was it? Just okay? No suspicious questioning? No dragging it out?

Excitement surged through her so fast she nearly exploded on the spot. She barely managed to stop herself from throwing her hands in the air and dancing right there next to the well.

Finally! Finally!

She’d been holding back ideas for too long, forced to test things in secret like some underground inventor. She’d felt like a genius criminal hiding blueprints in her socks. And now—freedom. Permission. Power.

Lord, she felt like twerking right there on the grass. Okay... okay. That was too far. Just joking. (Sort of.)

Instead, she let out a long, dramatic sigh like she was releasing five years of pent-up energy. Then she turned to face the villagers.

They were gathered again, all wide eyes and craned necks, whispering and peeking from behind one another like they were watching a live soap opera. Important people—Kian, the shiny-feathered newcomer, Cyrus and his tail, Euphim with his unreadable face, and her—the mystery girl with crazy ideas and no fear of anyone.

Their gazes were heavy, intense.

Most people might shrink under that kind of attention.

But Isabella?

She thrived in it.

The spotlight? Please. She was born under one.

Clapping her hands excitedly, she spun toward the crowd like a performer taking center stage. "Luca, go bring the bucket you made!" she called, her voice bright and commanding.

The villagers’ eyes followed her, hushed whispers picking up again as she straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat with the grace of someone who was about to do something big, dramatic—and very, very Isabella.

"This is a well, as you already know," Isabella began, her voice loud and clear—so smooth it almost sounded melodic to the ears.

She spotted someone in the crowd about to raise a hand or speak, and without missing a beat, she held up a single finger, graceful but firm.

"Don’t interrupt. You’ll speak when it’s time for questions," she said, not even looking directly at the person, before turning smoothly back to the rest of the crowd.

Her confidence stunned them into silence.

She looked small—harmless, even—but the way she carried herself? It was the exact opposite.