The Princess They Made Me Out To Be, The Starving Girl I Was Chapter 04

The Princess They Made Me Out To Be, The Starving Girl I Was Chapter 04

The first piece of cornbread burned my fingertips.

I took a huge bite, the coarse texture scraping down my throat. But it was warm, and when that hot mouthful hit my empty stomach, tears stung my eyes.

I ducked my head to hide them and ate faster.

The first piece vanished; I reached for a second. Someone nearby snickered.

Someone nearby snickered.

“She’s really committing to the bit.”

“The cameras are rolling nonstop. She has to overact hard to win viewers over.”

“Didn’t her dad just say she was a spoiled picky eater? Now she’s changing her whole persona?”

A girl covered her mouth and giggled.

“She knows everyone online is calling her a spoiled brat. This is just damage control.”

“Privileged young lady conquers rustic farm food—what an inspirational sob story.”

I heard every cruel remark, yet couldn’t stop.

When starvation gnaws at you, pride is worthless.

I wasn’t performing; I was terrified the basket would vanish before I had my fill.

I sipped the thin gumbo. Barely a trace of oil floated on top, but it tasted divine—far better than the university cafeteria’s free broth.

I grabbed a third cornbread, then a fourth, a fifth.

Cameras pressed closer; the crew’s amusement melted into stunned disbelief.

The live chat exploded. Comments raced across the monitor nonstop.

[LOL, did she forget she’s supposed to be a wealthy spoiled girl?]

[The performance is way too obvious. No rich kid acts like cornbread is fancy steak.]

[Quit eating, girl. The script is way too obvious.]

[Her dad claimed she orders takeout constantly. Now she pretends she’s starving?]

[I bet she breaks down crying any minute, saying she learned her lesson.]

[Faking poverty is disgusting. Actual poor people must be furious watching this.]

I couldn’t read those scrolling insults, but I could feel every pair of eyes on me. Their gazes wrapped around me like plastic wrap, heavy and suffocating.

Mouth stuffed full, I couldn’t defend myself.

Halfway through my seventh piece, I choked. A dry lump lodged in my throat; hot tears spilled as I strained to swallow.

Lucas rushed over with water. “Drink slowly.”

I gulped it down, stomach stretching painfully.

When a staff member reached for the basket, my hand shot out to press it down.

The yard fell silent for a heartbeat before whispers resumed.

“Look at her guarding the food.”

“Her act is incredibly thorough.”

“The director should give her a bonus for dedication.”

Lucas knelt down beside me. He didn’t laugh at all.

His voice dropped to a gentle whisper. “Hazel, no one is going to take the food away from you.”

Those words felt utterly foreign. I lifted my tear-streaked face to meet his eyes.

A doctor was called over. He ran a blood-sugar test and frowned deeply at the result.

“It’s dangerously low. Was this your first meal today?”

I stared at the ground and said nothing.

Lucas pressed me again. “Hazel, have you barely eaten properly for a long time?”

I remained silent. Thomas’s warning repeated endlessly inside my head.

Just then, the loudspeaker crackled back to life.

Mom’s voice cut through the room, thick with crushing disappointment. “Hazel, why are you doing this?”

“Your father told me you have never lacked nice food or clothes. I have never refused to support you.”

“Are you putting on this desperate display for the cameras to make everyone believe your family mistreats you?”

I squeezed the half-eaten cornbread until it crumbled.

Every eye was on me. I finally cracked. “But it isn’t an act.”

Mom froze mid-sentence.

I turned my face toward the live camera, tears streaming without restraint.

“I really am starving.”

My fingers dug into the bread, numb and trembling.

“Dad only passes $300 on to me every month.”

“That three hundred has to cover meals, bus fares, feminine supplies, and my phone bill.”

“I was too scared to ask you for extra money, afraid you’d think I was a burden.”

Mom stared at my live image on the screen. Her glass slipped out of her grasp.

On screen, Mom’s glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor.

Her assistant jumped up in alarm. “Ms. Sullivan!”

She paid no mind, shooting to her feet, voice shaky yet sharp. “How much did she say she gets?”

The director stared back, stunned.

Mom’s gaze stayed locked on the monitor.

“Who told her I only send $300?”