The Fake Heiress and Her Purrfect Partner novel Chapter 71

**Dreams Rise Again by Braxton**

**Chapter 71**

The livestream camera focused intently on the expansive table spread out before Claire. Each dessert was a masterpiece, artfully arranged to entice the investors who were about to join the event. The sugary creations glistened under the bright lights, looking even more delectable on screen, each one a promise of indulgence.

Adorable little tables shaped like cat paws held charming coffee cups and whimsical bunny-shaped cakes, crafting an enchanting tableau that was both delightful and perfectly suited for social media. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement as Claire’s dedicated fans and strategically placed supporters engaged fervently in the chat.

[This plating is so exquisite. Every shot looks like a magazine cover.]

[I heard they’re using only pure animal-based cream. Claire really won’t lose money on this?]

[I’m worried Claire might go all in and end up bleeding money.]

[These cakes are carefully baked by a small kitchen team; they really put their heart into it.]

With a cup of steaming coffee cradled in one hand and a petite cake in the other, Claire beamed at the camera. “This is our signature drink, civet coffee, brewed entirely by hand using premium coffee beans.”

She gestured toward the cake beside her. “Paired with this carefully baked cake, it strikes a perfect balance—sweet, yet not overwhelmingly so. I encourage everyone to give it a try.”

Nina, sitting nearby, wrinkled her brow in confusion. The term ‘civet coffee’ was foreign to her, and she rarely indulged in coffee at all. “Civet coffee? Why call it that? That sounds really weird,” she remarked, her curiosity piqued.

A quick search on her phone revealed the intriguing backstory of this rare coffee, originally known as Kopi Luwak. The beans were consumed and digested by civets, then collected, cleaned, and roasted to create a beverage that was as unique as it was expensive. The unusual process and the coffee’s scarcity made it a sought-after delicacy, with a flavor profile that was smooth and distinctive.

Suddenly, a spark of inspiration ignited in Nina’s mind.

Nearby, the sparrow agents Crow had dispatched perched on her outstretched hand, pecking at the fragrant birdseed biscuits. Their round bodies bobbed as they nibbled, and their glossy black eyes occasionally darted up at her, alert and watchful.

[Guys, can you make one more run and deliver a message for me?] she commanded, her tone firm yet playful.

At her signal, the sparrows flapped their tiny wings and took off, a half-eaten biscuit clamped in their beaks, darting toward the fourth floor like little furry missiles on a mission.

*****

Within the vibrant confines of Cuddle Critters Indoor Park, the waitstaff glided gracefully between tables, serving the carefully crafted desserts to each table filled with celebrity guests. Most of the stars, after Claire’s enthusiastic introduction of the products, were busy snapping photos with their drinks and desserts, eagerly anticipating the edited shots that would soon flood their social media feeds.

Chris, sitting with eager anticipation, suddenly perked up, recognizing the familiar chirping of the two sparrows. Moments later, a waiter approached him, presenting a cup of civet coffee alongside a petite cake.

Chris stared at the beautifully plated treats, his apprehension growing. He hesitated to reach out, recalling the unsanitary kitchen footage Nina had shown him earlier; it had been a veritable horror show—cockroaches could have staged a dance number in that kitchen.

His heart sank as his eyes widened in shock. Floating in the coffee was a single, unmistakable cat hair.

‘Which mischievous feline had contributed this, or was it an unexpected ingredient from the kitchen?’ he pondered, a wave of unease washing over him.

“Oh my god,” Chris exclaimed, his voice rising above the chatter. “Are they going for hyper-realism? Civet coffee with actual cat hair on the side?”

He lifted the hair as if it were evidence in a court case, spinning it around for all to see. “Ms. Summer, this is taking realism a bit too far, isn’t it? There’s actual cat hair in the civet coffee?”

The room fell into a stunned silence, so profound that one could hear a pin drop. All eyes turned to Chris, their expressions shifting from curiosity to disbelief.

Claire’s gaze landed on the damp hair in his hand, and a flicker of panic ignited within her. “That’s impossible. Our kitchen fully meets hygiene standards; if anyone doubts me, you are more than welcome to tour the kitchen,” she insisted, her voice steady despite the rising tide of anxiety.

Today was Investor Open Day, and the kitchen had been scrubbed to perfection; Claire felt confident that everything was in order.

The pictures depicted the same kitchen layout as before, but now it looked revolting.

Coffee beans meant for brewing lay haphazardly piled in a corner, their surfaces shriveled and unappetizing.

A few flies buzzed shamelessly around them, their twitching forelegs visible as they landed.

The floor was marred with suspicious stains, a grotesque mix of water and food residue, with several strands of cat hair entangled in the filth—clearly dropped by wandering cats nearby.

Even worse, one corner of the frame captured a pile of uncleaned cat feces, alarmingly close to the basket of coffee beans.

The entire kitchen appeared cramped and chaotic, ingredients and miscellaneous items stacked haphazardly; at first glance, it looked worse than a takeout prep station.

“Ugh—” A guest couldn’t contain their disgust, covering their mouth and rushing to the trash can.

Another guest screamed in horror, clutching their head. “The cakes we just ate? Were they made in this kind of place?”

“Definitely,” someone chimed in, their voice laced with disbelief. “There’s no way all these desserts were freshly made. They must have been prepared days ago.”

“Exactly,” another guest added, realization dawning. “They only cleaned up the kitchen for the investors’ visit. We were completely deceived.”

Claire felt her face burn with embarrassment as she listened to their murmurs. “No, it’s not like that,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing crimson.

The truth was, the cakes hadn’t been baked in this small kitchen at all—they had been ordered from a professional patisserie.

But admitting that would be a devastating blow. It would expose her earlier claim about the cakes being carefully baked in-house as a lie, revealing that all the desserts were, in fact, pre-made and delivered.