Scorned Vixen Bites Back

I sacrificed my Hollywood career for Marcus, becoming his devoted wife for twelve years.

"Kimberly, I messed up the address." His assistant handed me the Victoria's Secret box meant for his mistress Ivy.

My son Dylan screamed at me, "Why isn't it you who's sick, you old vixen?! Ivy should be my stepmom!"

I discovered Dylan was running hate accounts against me while worshipping the woman destroying our family.

When I confronted them, Marcus shoved me down the stairs without hesitation.

I packed my bags, left divorce papers on the table, and walked away.

Six months later, I returned to Hollywood as Bella Sterling—transformed, stunning, and unstoppable.

This time, the vixen would bite back.

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1

“Kimberly, I messed up the address.” The assistant looked at the Victoria’s Secret box in my hands, her face a mask of embarrassment. “You haven’t opened it, have you?”

I glanced down at the tell-tale pink box. You didn't need a label to know what was inside.

I smiled and handed it back. “Nope. Here you go.”

She snatched it, apologized profusely, and hurried away.

Just last night, on the eve of our anniversary, Marcus Wellington had asked me, “Honey, do you think lace thongs are sexier than cotton ones?”

I put down my wine, thinking he was planning a surprise. I teased him with a smile, “Why? You want to see me in one?”

I have to be fitted for my lingerie. My size is a bit unique, sometimes requiring custom orders.

In twelve years of marriage, Marcus had never bought me a proper gift. He’d just wire money to my account. So for him to ask so directly, it was a miracle. I patiently taught him about brands and styles, even “accidentally” leaving a pair of my black lace panties on his pillow.

The next day was our anniversary. To say I was hopeful would be an understatement.

But then the package arrived, and so did his assistant.

My heart sank, but I tried to reason with myself. He was a guy, clueless about this stuff. It was normal for him to get it wrong the first time.

I waited all afternoon. No word from Marcus.

But I did get news about someone else.

“Ivy Cesar posts sick-bed photo on Instagram, likely to miss the Golden Globes.” As a hot contender for Best Supporting Actress, the gossip exploded on Twitter.

I saw the news while my son, Dylan, was glued to his phone. I glanced at his screen, and he slammed it face down on the table. The raw anger on his face shocked me. Before I could react, a couch pillow hit me square in the face. “Why isn’t it you who’s sick, you old vixen?!”

My brain stalled, trying to process who this monster was.

Dylan used to be a sweet kid. But in the last year, he’d morphed from a shy boy who blushed easily into a little jerk who dropped F-bombs in every sentence.

I’d lost count of how many times he’d cursed me out.

My face went cold. Before I could say a word, he leaped off the sofa and yelled, “If you hadn’t been so desperate to trap my dad, Ivy would be my stepmom by now! She’s so hot, not like you, old and fat!”

As if afraid I hadn’t heard, he shouted louder, “And your stupid fans are just as pathetic as you! They said Ivy deserved it! I hope you die so she can finally be with us!”

Smack! My palm stung.

Dylan clutched his face, his eyes instantly turning red with disbelief. “You… you hit me?!”

“Say that again, and I swear I’ll rip that tongue out of your mouth!”

He glared at me with pure hatred. “Having a mother like you is a fucking embarrassment!”

With that, he stormed off to his room.

I stood there, frozen, taking a deep breath to calm the stabbing pain in my chest. The moment his door slammed, all my strength drained away, and I collapsed onto the sofa.

Dylan’s phone was still on the table, its screen lit up with a Twitter feed. From where I sat, I could see the vile, photoshopped pictures of me and the vicious comments. It was a hate account. And my son was the one running it.

My heart went numb. I reached for the phone and saw the tweet he’d just posted.

“Today, we’ll flood that old vixen’s tags!”

Old vixen—that was their name for me. Before I left the business, I was famous for my slightly upturned, fox-like eyes. But the haters preferred to call me a vixen.

I used to be a big deal. Even after twelve years away, the haters were still buzzing around me like flies.

But the real dagger in my heart was that my own son hated me this much.

The phone slipped from my hand. I looked up at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows—puffy, overweight. I could only stand to look for a few seconds before tearing my gaze away.

Twelve years had changed everything. My glory was gone. Now, I was just an old fox, hated by everyone.