Page 1 of Undisputed Chaos
PROLOGUE ONE
Isla
The ring light cast a warm glow across my bedroom, bathing everything in a soft, flattering radiance that made even my messy shelves look like something out of a magazine spread.
I adjusted the fabric of my pastel blue velour jacket, unzipping it just enough in a way that looked effortless but had actually taken me six tries to get right.
The camera watched me, its unblinking eye capturing every move as I reached for the palette I'd been sent to review.
"Hey flowers!" I chirped, the practiced brightness in my voice coming naturally after two years of talking to my phone like it was a person.
"Today we're trying this new spring collection that’s dropping soon! Look at how the colors match my cushions.”
My fingers danced over the shimmery pans of eyeshadow that were perfect for my audience.
Twenty-four years old, and I'd made an art form out of making mundane things look magical.
That was the trick to being @IslaBelleflower: finding beauty in the everyday, packaging it in Y2K aesthetics, and serving it with a smile.
The palette was nice enough, but it was nothing revolutionary. I'd learned that my followers didn't really care about brutal honesty; they wanted the fairy tale.
Me twirling in floral dresses, cooking perfect recipes, and painting sunset landscapes while looking like I'd stepped out of a 2000s rom-com. And I was happy to give them that version of myself.
"This shade called 'Daydream' would be perfect for a coffee date or brunch with the girls," I continued, swiping the peachy shimmer across my lid. "And it literally takes two seconds to apply."
It had taken me thirty minutes to perfect the look before filming, but I definitely looked the part.
I finished the video with my signature sign-off, a little finger heart and a silly line, then collapsed back against my pillows.
My room fell quiet, just the hum of my air purifier and the distant sounds of traffic floating through my open window.
Outside, the city was alive with late summer energy, bright and humid to match.
My apartment was exactly what you'd expect from someone who made their living showcasing aesthetic moments.
It had cream walls with art I painted myself, vintage-inspired furniture in pastel tones, plants I'd learned to keep alive, and surfaces covered in little trinkets that served no purpose other than looking pretty.
It wasn't large, but the many windows made it feel airy and bright. It was my grandparents’, and my parents gave it to me when I graduated from college with my art degree, which I wasn't using in any traditional sense.
I edited the video idly, cutting out the awkward pauses and the moment I'd stumbled over describing a shade called "Elixir."
My fingers moved across the screen, muscle memory from countless hours of perfecting these snippets of my life for public consumption.
After an hour, it was partly edited, and hashtags were strategically placed to maximize visibility.
I saved it to my drafts to finish editing later, and pulled another quick video I’d saved to post. The dopamine hit from watching the first likes trickle in was immediate and familiar.
"Engagement's pretty good today," I mumbled to myself, scrolling through the comments.
Sweet girls told me I looked pretty, asked about my jacket, and wondered if the palette was worth the money. I answered a few, dropping heart emojis and exclamation points like confetti.
My phone buzzed with a text, Mom's name flashing on the screen.
Mom
Don't forget dinner tonight! Dad's making something special.
Isla
