Chapter 232

Isabella Valentine crossed her legs, fingertips drumming against the armrest of the sofa. Her disdainful gaze swept over the crowd holding up their phones. "One more photo, and I'll ruin your career in this industry." Her crimson lips curved. "Test me if you dare."

The onlookers fell silent. A few timid ones quietly slipped out of the dressing room.

"See that?" Isabella toyed with her freshly manicured nails. "In this industry, I make the rules. What is Vivian Ashcroft? She doesn't deserve to share a dressing room with me."

A teardrop slid from Sophia Lowell's lashes, tracing a wet path down her cheek. She lifted her gaze slowly, a glint of steel flashing in her eyes.

"Understood."

Before the words fully left her lips, Sophia grabbed a bottle of makeup remover from the vanity and hurled it at Isabella's face. The liquid arced through the air, drenching Isabella's head and face with perfect precision.

Isabella's scream pierced the air.

Daisy caught on instantly, turning to bolt for the door. Vivian already had a second bottle in hand, smashing it over Isabella's head. "Those slaps earlier were to teach you manners. This one is to shut you up!"

The surrounding actresses recoiled in horror, afraid of getting caught in the crossfire. Isabella scrambled to dodge, but Vivian seized her collar and delivered two more resounding slaps.

"Sophia!" Isabella's assistant finally snapped out of her shock, lunging forward with claws bared.

Sophia was rubbing her stinging eyes when she heard the rush of air. Instinct made her tilt her head—just in time to see the incoming hand caught in a strong, masculine grip.

Backlit by the light, Ethan Roscente's figure loomed like an avenging deity. His powerful frame was encased in a black suit, the tie clip glinting coldly. His fingers tightened, and the assistant's face twisted in pain.

"M-Mr. Roscente..." The assistant's voice trembled.

The man's lips pressed into a hard line, a terrifying storm brewing in his eyes. He flung the assistant's hand away, each step of his polished shoes striking the floor like a death knell.

The dressing room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.