From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 75

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**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell 75**
**Chapter 8**

Seven long years had slipped by, and in that time, the flower vendor had transformed beyond recognition.

Her makeup was an impeccable masterpiece, each stroke of foundation and blush meticulously applied, creating an illusion of perfection. The clothes she wore were a testament to wealth, designer labels that screamed opulence and sophistication. A subtle swell of her belly added an air of elegance, as if she were a queen in the bloom of her reign.

They say that to love someone is akin to nurturing a delicate flower, tending to its needs with care and devotion.

Ryker had cultivated this particular flower with remarkable skill, nurturing her into the image of beauty and grace she now embodied.

Yet, beneath the surface of her polished exterior, Nova’s eyes betrayed a hidden weariness, a depth of fatigue that she struggled to conceal.

In a swift motion, she dumped a suitcase overflowing with cash right in front of me. The sound of the money hitting the ground echoed like a thunderclap in the stillness of the room. Her voice was sharp, dripping with a mix of arrogance and icy disdain. “Allison, there’s shameless, and then there’s you.”

I could feel the weight of her words, heavy and condescending. “You and Ryker have been divorced for years. Stop clinging to him.”

Her tone was relentless, cutting through the air like a knife. “I know you don’t want to lose your place as Mrs. Robinson. But you lost. Deal with it.”

The suitcase of cash was an enticing offer, one she seemed to believe would buy my silence. “Since you helped me once, I’ll return the favor. This money’s enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.”

“Take it. And disappear. Stay the hell away from Ryker.” Her arrogance was palpable, a shield against the vulnerability that flickered in her eyes.

With a swift motion, she slapped a pre-written contract down on the table, the sound sharp and final.

Her voice rose slightly, betraying an undercurrent of anxiety that contradicted her bravado. I remained silent for a moment, allowing the tension to build, the air thick with unspoken words.

Then, in a burst of defiance, I slapped her across the face.

“That one’s for me,” I declared, the sting of my hand echoing the hurt I felt inside.

Another swift slap followed. “And that one’s for the baby I lost.”

I could see the shock in her eyes, the realization of the pain that lay beneath my actions. “And this one? For all the students whose opportunities you stole…”

After seven or eight slaps, I paused, rubbing my wrist as if to soothe the ache that lingered there. “Now we’re even.”

“Don’t show your face around here again. And keep your husband from harassing me.”

**Chapter 8**

The hours spent kneading dough had built a surprising strength within me, a resilience I hadn’t fully appreciated until now. Nova stood before me, stunned and frozen, her expression a mixture of disbelief and fury.