Chapter 388: Chapter 388: These women are actually trying to pimp me out
The older woman’s voice rang out with authority, cutting through the chants and the drums. "Step forward, the chosen ones!" she cried, and the crowd erupted in excited murmurs.
Two young women, dressed in their finest, moved with practiced grace into the center. Their hair glistened with beads and flowers, their jewelry jingling as they walked, every movement screaming pick me, pick me. And then—of course—Isabella’s name was called. Isabella blinked once. Twice.
She even glanced over her shoulder as though there had to be another Isabella hiding somewhere in the crowd. Surely, surely these people didn’t mean her. She bit into her fruit with deliberate slowness, eyes narrowing.
Do these people seriously think I want to partake in this rubbish? Me? Isabella Devereaux? Miss "I have better things to do"? Oh, please.
She had neither the strength nor the time for this circus. She was about to open her mouth, roll her eyes, and very dramatically decline when Cyrus’s voice cut through the square.
"No," he said firmly, stepping just half a pace forward. "Isabella has never done this before. She could easily get injured dancing under the rain." Instantly the square exploded into hushed murmurs.
Women covered their mouths, men leaned toward one another, voices overlapping in curious tones. "Easily injured?" "Oh no, then it’s true, she shouldn’t be made to do it." "The poor girl, it will be too much for her..."
Isabella froze mid-chew. The fruit slipped in her hand. Her mind screamed: Excuse me—WHAT?! Since when did she have some secret medical condition that she didn’t know about? Why did it sound like the whole village was in on something she wasn’t?
Her head snapped toward Cyrus, blue eyes blazing. "What the hell do you mean I can easily get injured?" she hissed under her breath, trying not to make a scene but absolutely making a scene. Cyrus’s calm pink eyes locked onto hers.
"You will go and stand in the circle." His tone was gentle, but his words dropped like boulders. Isabella followed his gaze automatically. Her eyes caught on Kian’s throne first, and for a moment, her breath caught too.
He sat there like a statue of ice and gold, expression unreadable, gaze steady. Not a flicker of emotion betrayed him. Isabella’s lips pressed together. She rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair before dragging her gaze down to the ground, where a man was crouched, dragging a sharp stick through the dirt.
With quick, sure movements, he carved a massive circle into the sand. The crowd whispered louder.
"When the rain is called upon," Cyrus said softly beside her, "it will fall only on you. The force of it may be too much for you to bear. It is not easy for a woman to function under the rain."
Isabella’s mouth fell open. She turned to stare at him like he’d just declared the moon was made of cheese. "I’m sorry—what do you think I am? Fragile glass?!"
Isabella’s mouth fell open as she turned to stare at Cyrus like he’d just declared the moon was made of cheese. Fragile glass? Really? Oh, please. Her eyes nearly rolled out of her head. Back on earth, she could’ve danced while holding a twenty-pound dumbbell above her head. Not literally—but close enough. Rain? Rain was nothing. Just glorified shower water. She’d be fine.
She puffed her chest a little, Glimora giving an unimpressed mewl in her arms as though reminding her not to get cocky. Isabella still contemplated saying no—refusing the whole ridiculous offer.
She wasn’t about to become the evening’s free entertainment just so the entire village could ooh and aah. But before she could declare her rebellion, the older woman clapped her hands again, her smile wide and sharp.
"Don’t worry, child. There is no need to panic yet." Her voice carried to every ear in the square. "The king may not even pick you."
Isabella gasped so hard she nearly choked on her fruit. Her whole body jerked back, scandal lighting up her face. "EXCUSE ME?!" she squeaked, eyes wide, her free hand flying to her chest.
The crowd chuckled softly at her reaction, but Isabella was mortified. Did this grandma just imply that Kian would rather let her drown in rain than pick her? The audacity.
Isabella was literally in shock right now. Her jaw nearly hit the floor as her eyes narrowed on the older woman who had just spoken. And then it clicked. Oh. My. God. That wasn’t just any random old lady.
That was one of the women—the ones who had literally washed her hair and body with that suspiciously delicious-smelling purple cream earlier.
The same one who had been side-eyeing her and asking, "So, are you going to mate with the king tonight?" over and over again like some nosy aunt desperate for gossip.
Yes, that woman. The one who wouldn’t shut up about how tonight was the "best night for mating," since the Moon Mother was apparently out here scheduling ovulation like an overworked secretary.
Blah, blah, blah. Isabella hadn’t cared much at the time—she was too busy trying not to eat that cream. But now, looking at the gleam in the woman’s eyes, she realized the horrifying truth.
This was a setup.
That woman’s plan, and apparently the plan of all the older women (who were now huddled together, giggling into their wrinkled hands like middle schoolers), was simple: get Isabella in bed with Kian.
"Oh my god," Isabella thought, clutching Glimora so tightly the poor beast let out an annoyed growl. "These women are actually trying to pimp me out."
Everyone in the village knew she hated that. Knew she had too much pride to let herself be maneuvered like that. They knew she wasn’t the type of girl who could be pushed into a corner and told what to do. That was the fastest way to set her off.
Now, Isabella could have laughed in their faces, tossed her hair, and said, "Ha, nice try, but no thanks. I’m not dancing. Case closed."
But... she couldn’t.
Because if she said no now, what would it look like? That she agreed Kian wouldn’t pick her? That she was scared? That Isabella Devereaux, former dancer, actress, model, and queen of confidence, was afraid to dance under a little rain?
Absolutely not.
Her pride hissed at the thought. She could already imagine the whispers. She backed down. She was too weak. Too afraid. The very idea made her skin crawl.
And then, as if fate was pouring salt directly into her wound, Isabella’s gaze dragged itself up to the throne.
Kian was there, sitting like carved marble, regal and untouchable. His expression was cold as always, but when their eyes met—just for a heartbeat—he raised one brow. Barely. The faintest quirk of movement. His lips shifted slightly, covering part of his mouth, like he was amused.
Isabella’s stomach dropped. Her face flushed with outrage.
Oh my god. He’s daring me.
Her fingers tightened around the fruit still in her hand, nearly crushing it to pulp. The nerve. The absolute arrogance. He really thought she wouldn’t? That she’d just sit here like some scared little maiden while other women lined up to shake it for him?
"No," she thought furiously, glaring at him so hard she hoped he felt it burn. "Absolutely not. I’m going to show you, your nosy old women’s club, and this entire village. I will slay this dance. I will make rain my runway. And you—" her teeth clicked as she exhaled sharply—"you will most definitely pick me."
Because if there was one thing Isabella hated more than being manipulated, it was being underestimated.
And right now? Oh, she was both.