"One minute you're the mistress, the next you're interrogating her like you're the wife. Some people seriously have no shame."
Someone helped Natalia up.
"Sweetheart, don't cry. There are plenty of men out there. You deserve better."
"Exactly. Karma will come for the cheaters."
Maeve had to hand it to her—Natalia had no business *not* working in film and television. All it took was one photo and a sob story, and she'd built herself an entire identity: humiliated, resilient, and tragically pure.
The kind of heroine who suffers beautifully until a man comes along to "save" her.
Maeve casually flung the photo at Natalia's face.
"Show's over. Wrap it up."
Maeve had a strong arm. The edge of the photo sliced across Natalia's cheek, leaving a sharp red line.
Natalia clutched her face, eyes burning with humiliation as she glared at Maeve.
The crowd erupted again. "What is wrong with you—why do you keep hitting people?"
Maeve swept her gaze across the loudest voices. "How much did whoever hired you pay? What are you—background actors?"
The crowd: "…"
Andres caught the implication immediately.
*Background actors?*
Maeve pointed, one by one. "You. You. You—and you. I've been watching you. You're with her."
By "her," she meant Natalia.
"People who shop at Imperial Grand dress the part. Clothes, bags, jewelry—details matter."
"But look at yourselves. Everything you're wearing put together doesn't look like it cost more than a couple hundred dollars."
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