Camila Cabello Racist Tweets Novels & Stories

Camila just stared, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. “Enough!” Camila’s voice finally broke through the chaos. She stepped forward and yanked Yolanda away. “For God’s sake, look at yourselves. You’re pathetic.” Yolanda turned, panting. “Pathetic? She slept with my brother!” “And you’ve acted like you’re royalty ever since your empire grew!” Camila snapped. “Don’t stand there pretending you’re any better, Yolanda. You treat everyone like they’re beneath you. You’ve done it for years!”

I look at him, my expression dulling with a frown. Kendrick continues, “You want to win him over? Too bad. He's already got that crimson haired witch crawling all over him” My brows shoot up at the name ‘Crimson haired witch’ Wait, is he talking about Camila? I burst out in laughter, a sound that fills the silence that had settled. Kendrick stares at me with wide eyes, but I'm unable to control my laughter. It's funny; I also think of her as a red haired witch. I wipe my eyes, finally seeing Kendrick's expression.

"I thought it over all day and realized we can't keep letting things get this bad. We're family, after all. We can't let everyone else see us as a joke." Camila sighed before adding, "I let those women get in my head, and that's why I've been at odds with Jennifer." A flicker crossed Maxwell's eyes. It was as if he had realized something but chose not to say it. "It's only been a day, and you've suddenly had this epiphany? Don't you think that's a little quick?" he asked coldly. Camila hurriedly replied, "I know you don't believe me right now, but I posted a statement online to clarify that it was all just a rumor and that you and Jennifer have always treated me well. Take a look if you don'

Camila Ferreira, a celebrated supermodel and Miss Universe 1999, had me at 23, right at the peak of her career she likes to say. I’m often mistaken for a younger version of her. The resemblance is so strong that people would stop me for autographs, believing they were meeting a younger version of her. The only notable difference is my hair color—my chestnut blonde locks contrast with her espresso brown hair—and my eyes, which are inherited from my father. Unlike my mother’s 5'9" height, I stand at 5'4". My father, who was 6'3", likes to joke that their heights “cancelled each other out,” resulting in my shorter stature. Together, they were the epitome of couple goals.

The kind that makes your blood run hotter because you know what’s coming won’t sit right. “It was Carmela Gagliano, sir.” Silence. My hand clenched so tightly around the phone I felt the plastic strain. “She paid one of the nurses to fake a complaint. We intercepted the message. The chat logs show she’s been planning it for a while—said she wanted to ruin her. Said... said Cassandra was a 'stray mutt who didn’t know her place.’” My vision narrowed to red. I ended the call without another word. My thumb tapped my screen again. This time, I pulled up the damn livestream. And there he was. Dario.