The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 257 - 258: Why is she staring like that?

Chapter 257: Chapter 258: Why is she staring like that?

"Don’t be rude, I’m just doing my job," Bubu huffed, her tone soaked in indignation, before blinking out of existence like she’d been personally offended.

But that was exactly when Isabella’s lips curved—slow and smug—into a victorious smile.

Hehe.

She didn’t even need to be told that information. All it took was two dots and a little brainwork, and boom—level up. Her brain was brilliant. Gorgeous. Overqualified for this stone age nonsense.

Her eyes sparkled with self-satisfaction as she cradled Glimora like royalty holding her tiny, elegant, mildly suspicious heir. Isabella was basking in her own cleverness. Nothing like proving to herself once again that she was the smartest one in the entire damn village.

Glimora, nestled securely in her arms, tilted her small head up. The beastling blinked once. Twice. Slowly. Then she looked at Isabella’s face, glowing with silent glee.

Glimora did not know much—she was a tiny, squishy creature born who knows when—but she had instinct. And her instincts told her that whatever was happening here... wasn’t going according to normal logic. At all.

So she raised one of her limbs and gently tapped Isabella’s arm.

It wasn’t aggressive. Just a gentle, almost motherly, "Girl, focus" sort of nudge.

Isabella blinked and looked down.

Then she saw Glimora’s tiny face: soft, uncertain, clearly confused. Her smile slipped right off her lips, like a stone falling into a deep well.

Reality returned.

She exhaled slowly and looked up again, this time with a clearer mind. Her eyes moved past Glimora and toward the row of silent servant girls standing behind Garan—stiff-backed, obedient, unblinking.

Then her gaze drifted to Garan himself.

He was standing there, peacocking as always, trying his best to appear nonchalant—but she saw it.

The twitch at the edge of his jaw.

The small pulse in his temple.

The way his smile was just a fraction too wide, like he was clinging to it with brute force.

Oh, he hated this.

He hated that she hadn’t fallen apart at the sight of luxury. Hated that she hadn’t gasped, fainted, or at least fluttered her lashes. His pride was so loud, it might as well have had its own heartbeat.

And the silence from Isabella? That was a dagger straight into the center of his overfed ego.

Isabella cocked her head slightly, observing him.

Garan always moved like he thought the world was watching. Like every step he took deserved applause. Like his presence was a favor.

Isabella had always thought he was too much. Too polished. Too perfect. And absolutely too full of himself.

Even now, standing shirtless in his ridiculous hide skirt with bright, attention-screaming feathers on each shoulder—he was putting on a performance.

This wasn’t an offering. This was a show.

And he hated, absolutely hated, that she wasn’t clapping.

The silence dragged. Every guard behind her was holding their breath, eyes flicking from Isabella to Garan like they were watching a particularly tense hunt.

Then Isabella cleared her throat softly.

Everyone straightened.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked, voice smooth but clipped, like silk wrapped around a blade.

For a moment, Garan froze.

Then he chuckled—forced and slightly too loud. He turned his head theatrically and picked up one of the fur hides from the nearest servant’s arms. His movements were slow, dramatic, exaggerated, like a man unveiling a treasure.

He turned back to Isabella, holding the fur up with both hands as if it were sacred.

"For you," he said, smiling. Perfectly. Like a grinning fool.

Isabella’s face remained impassive.

That smile of his—so full of stupid confidence—made her want to slap it right off. But she didn’t. No, she didn’t give him the pleasure of a reaction. She just stared.

A long, slow, soul-crushing stare.

It was a silence that squeezed.

Behind her, one of the guards swallowed his dried meat too loudly and began coughing. Another muttered, "She’s gonna kill him," a little too audibly.

The servant girls didn’t even flinch. They were trained better than that.

But Garan... Garan was still standing there, arms stretched, smile plastered on like wax melting under the sun. The longer she stared, the more that confidence wilted. She watched it happen with deep satisfaction.

Still, Isabella said nothing.

Her eyes, those dangerous, disarming blue eyes, did all the talking.

And oh, did they scream.

Behind Isabella, the guards were whispering like overgrown children who’d just seen thunder strike a tree.

"Why is she staring like that?" one muttered, trying not to chew too loudly on his dried meat. "She hasn’t even blinked. That’s not natural."

Another leaned in, voice barely above a breath. "You ever seen her mad before?"

"No, and I don’t want to," the third one replied, glancing nervously at her back. "She looks harmless, right? Like... soft. But her eyes? Spirits above, those eyes feel like they can peel skin."

"She’s not yelling or throwing anything," someone else added, "and somehow that makes it worse. Like... like she’s gonna pick your soul apart with her gaze first. Then set it on fire."

One of them rubbed his arms as if he had goosebumps. "I can’t lie. I think I saw her blink once... but I’m not even sure anymore. What if she doesn’t need to?"

They all stood stiff now, the air turning thick, like even the breeze was too scared to move past her.

Isabella, of course, heard every word. Each syllable floated toward her ears like dry leaves in the wind—but she didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of her brow. Not a flick of her lashes.

Instead, her eyes slowly shifted to the servant girls behind Garan.

They were still poised, quiet and respectful, the perfect picture of beastworld grace. But Isabella saw it.

The tiny sideways glances.

The subtle eyebrow raises.

The slight shift in a mouth, just enough to suggest a smirk.

They were whispering, too. Not with words, but with their faces. Their eyes. Silently gossiping with each other without their master ever noticing. Because he couldn’t. Because Garan—bless his delusional heart—was too busy trying to read her face. Too lost in his performance to realize he was being outstared, outclassed, and absolutely outmaneuvered.

Then came the silence. It stretched.

Too long.

Too tight.

Even Garan, for all his pride, could no longer bear it. He fidgeted. Laughed awkwardly. Then finally said with a dramatic breath,

"Well... if you do not understand, I think it’s simple really. You and I are meant to be together."