THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 87: Rotten Eggs

Chapter 87: Rotten Eggs

Heather slammed the car door harder than she meant to. Every muscle in her body felt tight—trapped.

She didn’t want Marcus to drive her today, so she forced herself behind the wheel and headed straight for the company.

At a red light, she noticed coffee spilled onto the white linen of her dress. The jolt of the car door threw a small splash of dark roast down her front.

She reached for a napkin, but her hands were full of the coffee, her bag, an extra tote filled with scripts and makeup.

She wanted to throw the coffee at the wall. The coffee machine on set never tasted right—always seemed underbrewed and bitter, like someone left the grounds in too long, or forgot to fluff the foam.

This coffee was better, but it was ruined now.

Heather pressed her palm to the fabric, trying to blot the stain.

"Hello, Mrs. Heather," a voice called.

Heather turned, startled. Who had called her "Mrs."?

Nevertheless, she waved at the person—a makeup assistant she barely knew.

How did they know? Had rumors leaked? She hadn’t told Penny or Manager Sheng. Maybe Lauren whispered to someone in the crew.

But why?

She shook her head, muttering, "Ignore it."

Heather reached the revolving doors of the studio building and paused. Before she could push through, something hit the glass with a gooey splat.

"What the—" she murmured.

An egg rolling down the glass. A wet mess thinned across the glass. Then another—splattering onto her shoulder, indistinguishable from the coffee.

"Whore!" a voice yelled from outside.

Heather backed up. The smell was rotten. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her stomach knotted.

A few security that noticed, and they began coming out of the building, towards the entrance. Another egg hit her hair, the yolk dripped down her cheek.

"Stay away from Lauren, you industry whore!" someone shouted. They scattered as quickly as they came.

Heather stood frozen.

Whore? Rotten eggs?

This could be the work of Lauren’s fans?

The realization twisted inside her like barbed wire. Paying people? Breaking every rule of the estate? How far would Lauren go?

She sighed before walking through the revolving doors. She couldn’t go back to her car in this mess, her car was far too precious to be stenched up with the smell of rotten eggs.

It was a damn Lamborghini Sesto Elemento.

So, she was going back into the building like this and she didn’t care what anyone thought or would say. Her hands still shakily pressed wet napkins to her dress.

"Ma’am... are you okay?" a timid voice asked behind her.

Heather turned to face the person, but not before catching sight of the lurking, judgmental eyes around—assistants, actors, interns stopped in their tracks to stare.

Heather didn’t trust herself to speak. She felt fury, humiliation, dread. But above all, determination.

She wasn’t going to go back to that car looking like this. She had important work to do.

She dropped her coffee cup into a nearby bin, she forced her eyes to stay present and ahead, despite the piercing grace from the people around.

As she approached the check point, a uniformed guard blocked the moving point. When she tried to walk through, he stepped forward.

"Ma’am, you can’t go in—confirm your ID, please."

She paused and swallowed. Her nostrils still burned from the eggs. "I work here," she said sharply. She tried to keep her hands steady.

The guard pointed to a scanner, brandishing a small card. "Please."

Heather snapped, "I was going to use it if you’d let me through." She dropped her ID on the scanner. It pulsed green.

He returned it nervously. "Sorry, ma’am. Just doing my job."

She glared as she made her way slowly past him. He did that probably because of the way she looked. She cussed Lauren inwardly as she moved forward.

"Oh, my."

She would recognized that voice any day, anytime and still hate on it. But if she was in a terrible nightmare, this voice was the only thing going to save her, by waking her up.

Because she would wake up and shove something down her throat just to make her shut up.

Heather’s head turned—there she was. Lauren, dripping millennial chic with a smug smile and untouched handbag.

So old fashioned.

"What is on you?" Lauren asked, covering her nose.

Heather carefully measured her response. "Lauren," she said, her voice was quiet but deadly, "there are limits."

"Well," Lauren laughed lightly, her eyes flicked to security subtly, "perhaps I’m just surprised."

Heather ground her jaw. She took a small swipe at her ruined sleeve. "I don’t have time for this."

"Then don’t—" Lauren began.

"I don’t have time for this nonsense." Heather said before turning to walk away.

But Lauren took a step forward, blocking her path.

"You can’t come in here like—" she gestured at the eggs covering her hair and shoulders, "and expect me to smile and be nice to you."

"I didn’t come here like," she gestured at the eggs covering her hair and shoulders,"I got thrown outside."

"Then let me help you fix it."

Lauren smirked, then reached inside her tote, she lifted a travel coffee cup.

Heather knew what this was; it was a quick gesture that suggested she was planning to pour it on her dress.

Heather’s reflexes kicked in; she blocked Lauren’s arm and a drop of coffee splashed across Lauren’s blouse.

Lauren’s smile fell. "What have you done now?" she hissed, wiping the spot theatrically.

Heather’s voice dropped to a soft laugh. It cut sharper than any insult.

"Oh, sister. Let me help you." She stepped forward and hugged Lauren close—her arms absorbed the smell and the ridiculousness of it all.

Lauren lurched away, sputtering. What had this stupid girl done? She tried getting it off. "Get it out. Get it out. Get it out." She said to her assistant.

Good. Now Lauren got a taste of her own medicine. She straightened herself, smoothed her clothes.

"I hope that feels clean," Heather said softly. The beaten scent of her dress and Lauren’s absurd calm pinged her nerves.

She walked toward the staff check-in desk. Lauren keeled over, gagging behind her. But she didn’t even want to hear. She had given her a little bit of what she set up for her.

As she entered further into the building, she couldn’t unnotice the stare from the people around.

She noticed Manager Sheng in his office, since the office glasswas transparent. And she decided to pay him a little smelly visit.

When she pushed his door open, manager Sheng looked up. He covered his nose immediately.

"What is on you?"

"Lauren’s fans," Heather said plainly.

"Let’s get you into something else," he whispered.

She nodded at her ruined dress and followed him down the hall.

"What about my texts?" he asked quietly as he walked her towards the door.

Heather paused. "What text?"

He showed her his phone: video footage of Caius on an early morning livestream.

He’d referred to "my wife"—he’d mentioned Heather by name. He turned it toward her.

"What the hell is that about?" she whispered.

His question was raw. "Because you’re married to Caius," he said.

Heather’s brain ground to a halt. "Why are you saying that like it’s news?"

"I am shocked," he said, eyes wide. "You hate Caius."

She drew in a breath. "It’s just for now. We’ll divorce soon."

He tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brows and frowning. "Why marry if you’re divorcing?"

Heather shook her head and headed down the corridor. "I have to change. I’m late for set."

...

She reached the makeup room and stood before the mirror. The sticky smell of eggs and spoiled milk clung to her hair, and the dark stain splashed across her dress looked like a war paint she didn’t choose.

Her heart hammered—not from fear or embarrassment, but from the rush of adrenaline that burned into the edges of her skin.

Something about being attacked had shifted something inside of her. She was alive and she was furious.

And she would not let Lauren—or anyone else—tear that away from her.

She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. She’d show up on set strong.

Let them whisper. She would not be the punched-down victim.

She straightened her shoulders, and whispered to her own reflection, "Today, you fight."

Then she stepped forward and brushed away the egg shells and coffee grounds.

Knock Knock

Heather didn’t bother turning to the direction, she already knew who the person was.

Penny had a nice scent Heather loved. It basically defined her and it made people want to be around her.

She was going to get ready for the scene of today. She could have gone back to the house and relax, but she stayed because it was the last scene—and she did not want to be defined by a broken dress or the words of a hidden enemy.

"Girl, you okay?"

Heather brushed away the egg shells and coffee grounds from her hair.