From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 83

**Chapter 7**

“Cedric!” Fiona’s voice was a blend of reluctance and irritation, her words dripping with a sense of entitlement that made the air feel thick with tension.

He didn’t respond verbally; instead, he shot her a piercing glance, one that conveyed a myriad of unspoken sentiments—frustration, irritation, and perhaps a hint of weariness.

With a resigned sigh, Fiona made her way towards the door, her posture rigid as she moved, each step echoing her dissatisfaction with the situation.

Just as she reached the threshold, an impulsive idea struck her, compelling her to pivot on her heel. Her expression morphed into one of urgency mixed with anxiety.

“Nina, my bag is still on the table. Can you pass it to me?” she called out, her voice tinged with an underlying desperation that was impossible to ignore.

Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I couldn’t help but find her theatrics tiresome. I walked over to the table, snatched the bag, and extended it towards her.

But in that fleeting moment, I noticed her hand jerk back as if it had been stung by a bee, just as she was about to grasp the handle.

The bag slipped from my fingers, falling to the ground with a soft thud, its contents erupting like a chaotic fountain.

Fiona dropped to her knees, her eyes widening in sheer panic.

“Oh no! The perfume I bought for Cedric is shattered!” she cried out, her voice climbing in pitch as a wave of distress washed over her. “I had to plead with someone to bring it back from a shop in France. It was such a hassle!”

Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she continued, “It was supposed to be a birthday gift for him,” her sobs escalating into heart-wrenching cries.

“Nina, I know you can’t stand me, but why can’t you just be honest? Why do you always resort to these childish tricks?” she lamented, her words a painful mix of hurt and accusation.

Cedric moved closer, his expression shifting from confusion to concern as he took in the sight of the shattered perfume nestled among the scattered items. He gently lifted her up, trying to soothe her distress with the kind of tenderness that seemed to betray the turmoil brewing between us.

“It’s okay, Fiona. It’s just a bottle of perfume,” he reassured her, his voice calm and steady, yet it felt like a thin veneer over the brewing storm.

But she was inconsolable, insisting that all her efforts had been in vain, that I had deliberately orchestrated this disaster.

“Nina, you need to apologize to me in front of everyone today,” she demanded, her voice quivering with indignation, her eyes ablaze with a mixture of fury and desperation.

“Fiona, you’re the one who pulled your hand back; this isn’t my fault,” I replied, striving to maintain my composure despite the rising tension that felt almost suffocating.

“Cedric…” she wailed, wrapping her arms around him, seeking his support as if he were her last lifeline in a stormy sea.

He patted her back gently, trying to offer comfort, “Don’t cry. This isn’t good for the baby.”

Yet, her sobs only intensified at his words, amplifying the emotional chaos that enveloped us.

“I’m pregnant, and you know my emotions are all over the place! I want to create a good environment for our child, but I can’t help it…” she cried, her voice cracking with anguish, each word a dagger to my heart.

“She destroyed my things, and all I want is an apology from her. Isn’t that fair?” she added, her eyes darting between us, searching for validation, her desperation palpable.

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