Chapter 16

No more than a few minutes after the pocket watch was thrown out, the phone in the room rang, like the ominous chime of a cursed bell. Winnie jumped in fright, picked up the receiver without speaking, thinking it might be some creepy, obsessive fan. Startled by the sudden ring, she heard a low, cold voice on the other end, "Actually, you could have just told me directly this way." "And then?" Eric asked, barely holding back a laugh. "She said okay, and next time she'll know better." "Next time?" Eric raised an eyebrow. Van replied, "I asked her the same thing. It seems like Miss Loxley often does this kind of thing." "What did she say?" Eric pressed, like he was watching a drama unfold. What could Winnie say? She tightened her grip on the phone line and whispered, her breath tight with anxiety, "It's the first time." She knew the man on the other end wouldn't believe her. He had probably seen it all—the manipulative games women play, whether it's pure, bold, straightforward, or teasingly indirect. He must have seen every kind of woman's charm—innocent, alluring, bright, or mature. How could he believe that a socialite in the world of fame and fortune would be giving a man her number for the first time? But it was only because she needed to return the cardigan. At most, there was just a trace of rebelliousness against Wyatt. Eric tucked the metal pocket watch into his suit's inner pocket and asked politely, "Do you need me to do anything?" "Check her address and send the pocket watch over." "She checked out already." Eric glanced at his watch, confirming the time. "It's only 7:10." "I asked the front desk. She checked out at 4 AM." "Alright," Eric nodded. "I'll take care of it as soon as possible." Van cut him off coldly, "Don't tell anyone else about this." Eric understood that Van didn't want anyone to know about his encounter with Miss Loxley. Winnie checked out at 4 AM, and it wasn't the company's alpha driver who picked her up, but a different car, unfamiliar to her fans. The driver took her, and after over an hour's drive, she arrived at the set's makeup room, not a minute late but actually half an hour early. By this time, the makeup artists in the crew were still yawning back at the hotel. When the boss arrived, the assistants were naturally expected to be on standby. Winnie's assistant, named Yulia, was a good girl who had been with her for six years. Winnie gently pressed her hand. "Don't make a fuss. Help me change into a new one." The only one who saw the mottled wound on her knee was the stylist assistant. The skin was broken, and the blood, along with the subcutaneous tissue, had congealed into a layer, which Winnie wiped away with a wet towel. In truth, the series of complicated moves—blocking, grappling, tumbling, kneeling, and falling—had already been embedded in her muscle memory. As one of the few actresses in the entertainment industry today who could play a female warrior, Winnie had top-notch body management skills. If the pain hadn't been so intense, she wouldn't have been slow by even half a beat. The eighth take, the director finally gave in, but only said a few words: "Passable, but not impressive." As Winnie walked down from the camera, her steps seemed normal, but her fingers were frozen and red. Yulia quickly draped a down jacket over her and handed her hot water and a warm towel. Winnie cradled the steaming disposable cup, curling up on a small stool, as waves of shivering wracked her body. "Do you want me to massage your shoulders?" Yulia volunteered. The moment her hand touched Winnie's shoulder, her face immediately changed. "No!" she snapped. Her voice was tight, and her body stiffened. Yulia was startled, pulling her hand back at once. After nearly two continuous hours of shooting, Winnie finally finished her scenes for the day. It was already 4 PM, and the weather was perfect. As she stepped out of the freezing cold storage area, the sunlight poured down, making her want to collapse right then and there and fall asleep. Yulia supported her from behind, concerned. "You're about to faint, aren't you?" After returning to the dressing room to change and remove her makeup, an Alpha van drove her back to the hotel. Seeing how exhausted she was, Yulia tried to cheer her up. "I saw Mr. Robinson this morning and didn't have a chance to report back to you. He didn't seem upset. He said not to worry about it." Winnie smiled. That little rebellion of hers was really like a tiny stone thrown into a lake—barely making a ripple in Wyatt's heart. "Oh, by the way," Yulia added, taking out her phone, "the edited photos should have been sent by now. Let's see how the fans are praising you—" On X, #WinnieHauteCouture# stood out. Yulia's tone, which had been light, suddenly halted. "What does it say?" Winnie opened her eyes. "N-Nothing," Yulia said, her smile stiff as she hid her phone. "Just stuff like 'marry me, my wife is so beautiful,' and things like that." She was an honest person, so even when lying, she wasn't very good at it. Winnie didn't engage further. She unlocked her phone and logged into her secondary account to check. Many marketing accounts had posted the same thing, with identical captions—clearly pre-arranged. But the comments section was a disaster: "How shameless, posting this after looking so tired." "Do you think haute couture is more important than making movies now?" "Last year at the movie festival, you were nominated for Best Actress. You said acting is your career, and now you're skipping out on shooting for some event? I don't see any dedication." "If parties are this important to you, maybe you should just retire from the industry and get married. Stop grossing us out." "If I had to say something... it's ugly." There were also mentions of Wyatt, with fans criticizing her for wanting to become a businesswoman, earning over two thousand angry comments. Passersby found it hilarious to see how upset the fans were.