Beauty Has A Price: A love story

By @ActressMawuena
Beauty Has A Price: A love story

If you don't read the story, at least read the authors note. It's the fifth chapter. Reading the story, though, will help you understand what it really is like having beauty. It's stuck on your face and you can't remove it. At first, you may like your looks, but soon you'll agree and totally connect. So, here's a blog where you can have a community of people like you:

Chapter 1


“I told you for the last time, I’m not going to date you!” I say.

Philip nods, but in his little teeny head of his, he doesn’t actually understand. He’s the captian of the football team, so he has a pretty big ego. And I just punched it in the gut.

“Well, okay, but I’ll be back!” he says.

He clearly did NOT get my message.

All the girls are whispering now.

“I heard that she only said ‘no’ because she’s playing hard to get.”

“I heard that her mom had one million dollar plastic surgery and that’s why she looks so pretty.”

“I heard that she’s secretly a model and Kim Kardashian is giving her private lessons and that’s why she walks so perfect and is so perfect.”

“I heard her mom has been paying one thousand dollars a year for a countess to give her lessions.”

“I heard that she is a countess.”

Okay, so I am a model. But I do not know Kim Kardashian personally. Though this year my mom entered me for America’s next top model, so next week I’ll be the talk of the town.

But really, I was born with everything.

Okay, close your eyes.

Imagine *dark caramel and honey skin.

Big black eyes. Full lips. Thick lashes. Slim nose. Great chin. Nice brows. And a triangle body type.

I look like some famous people, but I forgot their names.

I silently walk to English Class, everyone pertending I don’t exist.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. How can the prettiest girl in school be ignored? Your face literally glows!

Everyone’s pretending that I’m only my image.

The steriotypical “dumb blonde” only with super curly black hair.

Another thing that makes me hate being pretty.

Honestly, I should start a list.

I sit down in the back of the classroom in the corner to avoid the stares, but that doesn’t stop them from glancing at me a least once.

I take out my notebook and start doodling.

“Good morning Lake Acadamy Students!” Mr. Hemsworth always like to have a formal introduction.

“Good morning Mr. Hemsworth.” We all say in unison.

“Now, we’re going to learn about blah, blah blah blah….”

I’m not listening. My future is already decided: I will be an international model. It’s really hard to get into, but once you do, you’re rich. I am really excited to do it because I love modeling. Just not at school.

TONS of people are jealous of me. I don’t know how daddy did it, but he knows people.

A LOT of people.

Now, to make a list.

Reasons why I hate being pretty:

*Apperently, you’re only what you are on the outside

*You HAVE to date the most popular guy

*If not, the most rich guy

*You either have to be lower class and rise to upper class or be upper class and stay in upper class. No middle class or going down it the pyramid (although I am rich, there are other girls like me who aren’t)

*Always have to accept gifts (although you always get free stuff. Like, always.)


I want to go on, but the bell rang.

I walk out of school in my Louis Vuitton Crocodile Skin City Steamer Satchel. I am close to reaching the helicopter when three boys come up to me and say, “No one rejects Philip like that.”

I quickly (and stealthily) click the SOS button and the GPS button on my smartwatch. Good. The Driver will be able to locate me. I don’t know his real name, but he’s around my age (I’m 17). He finished college at 14 years old. FOURTEEN! He skipped 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th grade.

We’re walking to behind the school when half of our guards come.

“Uh-oh! Drop the girl!” The sensible kidnapper says.

“No, Philip will kick us off the football team!” The bulky kidnapper says.

“I’ll kick you off this Earth with my gun.” Driver says.

They run away as fast as lightning strikes.

“Thank you, um.. driver?” I say.

“Give me thirty dollars, Frank.”

The guard behind him reluctantly does so.

“Why?” I ask.

“Frank and I betted if you would know my name. Clearly, you don’t.”

“Well, what is it?” I demand.


“That’s a Welsh name.”

“You sure seem to know about names. Anyways, I’m 75% welsh.”

“Then where’s the accent?” I joke.

“Actually, I lost it ten years ago. Those memories are long gone.”

I didn’t actually know he had had (That is not a typo) an accent.

There’s a lot I don’t know about Rhydian.

*True about me.

Comments On This Chapter

Like Love Haha Wow Sad Angry
Comment 0 Comments

Similar Stories

Similar Titles