The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 191 - 192: When did you turn this selfish, Ophelia?!

Chapter 191: Chapter 192: When did you turn this selfish, Ophelia?!

"What took you so long?" Isabella narrowed her eyes and gave Luca a suspicious side-eye, the kind that silently screamed, I will poke your eyeballs with this gourd if you sass me right now.

Luca, in all his dramatic glory, rolled his eyes like a full-circle wheel. "I was busy not dying under the weight of expectations," he muttered, flopping inside like a cat that had just escaped an emotionally taxing conversation with a butterfly.

Isabella sighed dramatically. She was starting to think there was a curse on her or something—every time someone started living with her or hanging around too much, they caught this bold bug. Suddenly they’d grow a mouth, an attitude, and the gall to act like they were equals.

Not that she hated it. On the contrary, she low-key lived for it.

She liked expressive people. The ones who said what they felt. The ones who weren’t just sheep, bottling it up until they exploded like a shaky gourd under pressure. Give her an unfiltered friend over a fake smiling puppet any day.

"Get your ass here and let’s start filling these up before those women outside go feral," Isabella grunted, flicking her hand toward the mountain of empty gourds. Her tone was dismissive, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She was already entertained.

Luca dropped down beside her like a loyal goblin, grinning and muttering, "Yes, my Queen."

They worked quickly. One by one, they dipped the smooth ladles into the massive clay pot of rich, creamy soap and poured it into the hollowed gourds.

The scent was floral with a calming touch, the kind that settled into the lungs and made the whole hut feel like a quiet, enchanted bathhouse. It clung to their fingers, soft and lingering, like a whispered lullaby wrapped in steam.

Thank the heavens this soap stretched far. It was potent and rich enough that even a finger swipe could wash a whole leg. It would be enough for the women, the men, and maybe a little extra for her secret stash. Unless, of course, someone was Ophelia-minded.

That made Isabella pause mid-pour. She squinted at nothing in particular and tilted her head.

How had Ophelia wasted that much soap?

Was she experimenting? Did she bathe a bear? Mistake the soap for a smoothie and pour it down a child’s throat? Did she try to clean the house with it? Or worse—was it some freak accident she was too scared to admit?

No. Ophelia didn’t lie. Not about things like this. The girl could trip on her own toes and still confess it.

Isabella chuckled softly, remembering Ophelia’s panicked face that one time she burnt the meat so badly it turned to charcoal. Instead of tossing it out like a normal person, she had tried to "camouflage" it under some fresh leaves, whispering, "Maybe I’ll just tell them it’s supposed to be this black. Charcoal is cleansing, right?"

But her amusement died fast when a shout tore through the air like a whip.

"When did you turn this selfish, Ophelia?!"

The voice rang loud, angry, and violent—so venomous it practically made the air taste bitter.

Isabella froze. Her spine stiffened. That voice... that cursed, greasy voice. She recognized it instantly.

It was the one she’d hoped never to hear again in her lifetime.

Slowly, like a queen preparing for battle, Isabella set down the gourd in her hand. She stood, brushed her skirt, and walked to the hide curtain with her mouth in a hard line. She pushed it aside with one palm, stepping out into the open.

All she could see at first were the backs of the women, a solid wall of broad shoulders and bustling whispers.

"What’s going on here?" Her voice cracked through the tension, firm and sharp like a blade against glass.

The women turned instantly, parting like the red sea. Their worried faces cleared a path, and what Isabella saw at the center made her stomach lurch.

Ophelia was on the ground. Her body curled in like a wounded pup, one arm clutching her side, her other hand covering her swollen, tear-streaked face.

And looming over her like the stench of something rotten was him.

That man. That creature. That mistake of evolution Isabella had once saved Ophelia from.

Her hands clenched into fists. Her whole body buzzed with anger. She wanted to launch herself at him, bite his face, slap him with a flaming ladle, something. But she wasn’t stupid. She couldn’t take a beastman in a physical fight—not with just her human strength and mouth.

Bubu had warned her. Train, cultivate, learn to defend yourself. At the time, she brushed it off. But now... now it made perfect sense.

The man turned, lips curling in that smug, greasy way. "Oh look at who we have here. I hope you’re not here to disrupt like last time."

He hated women like this. The type who stood tall without asking for permission. The kind who didn’t cower, didn’t flinch, didn’t beg. Women who didn’t seem to know their "place"—or worse, knew it and refused to stay there. His fists clenched by his sides, trembling not from fear but from the slow burn of deep, seething resentment. Women like Isabella, who walked around with their chins up, as if the world owed them air to breathe. As if they weren’t created to kneel. To submit. To obey.

They’d never been broken. Never been taught. Never had a man shove their pride down their throat until they choked on it. And that infuriated him.

His voice made her skin crawl, but Isabella didn’t even look at him.

Instead, her eyes flicked past him—thank the gods, Cyrus was approaching. His steps were calm, purposeful, and he held a tightly sealed clay pot with a confidence that made the wind bow respectfully.

"What is that?" Isabella asked, ignoring the man like he was nothing more than a rotting log in her path. Her voice was curt, clipped—cutting him out of the picture entirely.

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