The invitation came in a gold envelope that smelled faintly of hops and cocoa butter.
Madison Beer thought it was a brand deal.
She posted a mirror selfie holding the envelope to her chest (cleavage on full display, caption: “someone wants to put me in chocolate? name a better collab”).
Twenty-four hours later a matte-black Rolls was waiting outside her house. She wore a tiny white crop top that barely contained her already-legendary assets, low-rise leather pants, and a smug little smile.
Famous last smile.
The factory doors sealed behind her with a sound like a bank vault.
Miss Wonka waited beneath a single red spotlight, top hat tilted, violet velvet coat brushing the floor.
“Madison Beer,” she said, tasting the name like fine wine. “Today we bottle perfection.”
Madison rolled her eyes. “Cute. Where’s the contract and the ring light?”
There was no contract.
The Oompa-Loompas came out of the dark like a silent tide. Ten of them. Twenty. They moved too fast for screaming. Titanium cuffs snapped around her wrists and ankles. A collar locked her neck back at a cruel angle, mouth forced open by a cold steel ring gag. Her phone clattered to the floor and shattered.
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