The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 258 - 259: What—you don’t think I’m good enough for you?

Chapter 258: Chapter 259: What—you don’t think I’m good enough for you?

"Ha."

It wasn’t loud at first. Just a single breathy syllable that slipped from Isabella’s mouth, like a leaf twitching before a full gust of wind.

But it was enough.

The air shifted. Heads turned. Even Glimora lifted her little snout.

Isabella’s laugh built slowly, bubbling up from her chest like a spring bursting through rock. She took a step back, eyes wide with disbelief, staring at Garan like he had just offered her a piece of sky and expected her to wear it.

The day had barely even started. The sun was still stretching its limbs over the jagged cliffs in the distance, the wind hadn’t even picked up speed yet, and yet—already—so many questionable things had happened. So many choices. So many absurdities. But this? Oh, this took the entire basket of sun-dried roots.

She looked him dead in the eyes now, and that’s when it really hit her.

He was serious.

Not joking. Not playing.

Dead. Beastworld. Serious.

That realization struck her harder than any of Gerwin’s pathetic slaps. And she lost it.

Like truly lost it.

A full laugh burst out of her, sharp and sudden. Then another. Then she was gripping her stomach, her legs threatening to give out beneath her from sheer disbelief. She stumbled back and instinctively reached out for support, her hand latching onto the nearest thing—which happened to be the arm of one of the guards behind her.

"A-are you okay?" he asked, trying to sound calm. But the truth was, his soul had just leapt clean out of his chest.

Because Isabella wasn’t just laughing—she was glowing. Her laughter rang out like bells over the cliffs, wild and clear and ridiculous. And when she threw her head back, her blonde locks catching the light like woven sunbeams, it made her look almost divine.

"Why do I feel like this laugh is more real than the one she gave us?" one of the guards whispered, squinting like he was analyzing a sacred ritual.

"Because it is," the one beside him muttered grimly. "We were background noise. This? This is from the depths."

The guard whom Isabella clung to stood frozen. Her long, slender fingers were wrapped around his bicep, and it was... warm. Very warm. Her touch was deceptively light but felt. And her head—her goddess-blessed head—was dangerously close to his shoulder.

Something ignited in his chest.

Something terrifying and wonderful.

It was so beautiful, so unreal, that for a second, he thought maybe if he leaned down just a little... just a bit... he could get a taste of—

Thunk.

A sharp elbow nudged him hard in the side, snapping him out of his dreamlike trance.

The blushing guard blinked, whipped his head around to glare at the one beside him, who gave him a tight, warning smile.

"Don’t be that guy," the second guard whispered through his teeth.

Isabella didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy wiping an actual tear from her eye, still shaking with after-laughter as her breathing tried to recover.

She turned her face slightly toward Garan again, catching her breath—and instantly saw it.

That look.

That... look.

The one men wore when they said something ridiculous and couldn’t understand why it hadn’t been met with applause.

Garan was smiling through the awkwardness, clearly trying to hold onto his pride. His golden-feathered shoulders rose ever so slightly with his inhale, his jaw flexed subtly like he was bracing for a storm. And worst of all, his eyes held that glint of hope—like he thought maybe, just maybe, she’d been flattered.

Isabella sobered instantly. The laughter melted off her face like morning dew under fire.

She raised a brow, still holding onto the guard’s arm like it was nothing.

"You..." she said slowly, blinking as if translating his words again in her mind. "You genuinely think that you and I are meant to be together?"

Glimora who was now on the ground beside her, made a confused squeak and tilted her head like a curious pup who had just watched someone step into a pitfall.

The guards went silent again.

All eyes were on Isabella.

The air was heavy with anticipation.

And then... she slowly released the guard’s arm, straightened, and crossed her arms with practiced grace.

"Interesting," she said, like a queen examining a broken artifact. "Tragic. But interesting."

"What—you don’t think I’m good enough for you?" Garan finally said, voice tight and wounded, as the truth hit him like a spear through his peacock-pride heart. He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to understand how reality had just betrayed him so horribly. The confusion twisted his handsome face, his jaw tightening, the feathers on his shoulders trembling slightly with his indignation.

Then his tone shifted—more energetic now, like he was grasping at straws. "Or is it the gift?" he asked, stepping forward as if proximity would fix whatever had just gone wrong.

Immediately, Isabella’s arm shot out like a royal decree. "Ah—keep your distance," she warned, her smile vanishing like smoke in wind.

It wasn’t just her words. It was the way she said it—flat, unimpressed, with that quiet finality that could snap a man’s confidence in half. The air around her seemed to chill, and even Glimora, perched dutifully in her arms, narrowed her tiny eyes as if echoing Isabella’s silent judgment.

Garan froze mid-step, his eyes wide with disbelief. It looked like that was the first time in his life anyone had ever said that to him—especially a woman.

Because usually, in his world, women asked for him.

They begged for his touch, fought for his gaze, left offerings outside his room wrapped in flower petals and crushed herbs. Some even sang by the fire, weaving songs about the way his hair caught sunlight like river-gold. One time, someone tried to lick his chest. That’s the kind of life Garan was used to.

But here he was, being held at arm’s length by a woman who was—gods help him—laughing at him like he was a joke with no punchline.

He didn’t know if he felt wounded... or intrigued. Deeply, stupidly intrigued.

He glanced around at the guards and servants, who were now pretending not to be listening by very obviously listening. Their eyes darted between Isabella and Garan like they were watching a hunt unfold in slow motion.

"Or is it because my gifts aren’t good enough?" Garan asked again, his voice louder now as if he was trying to rally, lifting his chin with the pride of a prince. His hand swept dramatically toward the exquisite fur hides, the lavish offerings still cradled by the patiently bowing servant girls. "These are the rarest furs from the northern pines—foxes that glow in the dark, wolves with silver-tipped coats. Do you know how many beasts we lost getting these?"

Then he turned to look at Isabella—earnest, expectant, maybe even a little desperate. For once in his life, he wanted the answer to be no.

Everyone held their breath, the world itself seeming to lean in—

Isabella looked this poor man dead in the eyes.

And said, without blinking:

"Exactly."