"I still haven't eaten, you know," Nicky complained to the camera, her voice tinged with a whine that unexpectedly softened the chat:
[Okay why is this lowkey adorable?]
[Don't fall for it! Remember her diva past? This is an act!]
Nicky's eyes caught the "act" comment. Instantly energized, she raised an eyebrow at the lens. "Hate me all you want, but don't be willfully blind. So 'Luna's Little Fan'—you can trash me, but I can't clap back? You've got a peanut-sized brain with ocean-sized dreams, huh?"
"And so what if I talk back? If you can't hear me clearly, I don't mind carving my words into the pavement outside your house so you see them every day."
Her sharp retort energized the stream. Nicky ignored further comments and focused on washing. Soon, half of the ten tubs were empty. She stacked the clean dishes neatly on the rack, pulled off her gloves, and clapped her hands together. "Done!"
Pushing through the kitchen swing doors, her camera revealed a new scene: several middle-aged women in waterproof aprons were washing dishes and chatting. In the steamy haze, their voices—tired but genuine—drifted into the mic:
"My kid's tuition is due in September… gotta get him new clothes for school, or the other kids will make fun of him."
"I have to keep working. My son's mortgage isn't paid off yet."
"Yeah, our savings won't last. This is all I know how to do. Every plate means a little more money."
Their real, gritty conversation flowed into the livestream. The mocking comments slowly faded, replaced by reflection:
[This hits different… my mom worked side jobs like this for my tuition.]
[I never thought dishwashing was that hard until now.]
[Is Nicky filming this just to get sympathy?]
"Sympathy?" Nicky laughed, a hint of weariness in her voice. "I thought I was on the 'pretty and kind' path. Guess I was wrong."
"But let's be real—everyone else has a heart. You just don't. I haven't made a cent off you, yet you're all up in my business. Since when do you get to tell me what to do?"
Just then, Maria, the kitchen supervisor, walked over. Seeing the empty tubs and spotless dishes, her eyes widened. "You finished already? I need to inspect." She held a plate up to the light. "Not a single water spot! You're something else. I wasn't sure when you said you could handle hard work, but you're a natural."
Maria paid her in cash—$50 straight into her hand. Nicky held the bill up to the camera. "See? Money you earn yourself just feels better. Thanks, Maria—call me anytime you need temp help!"
She took off her apron and politely said goodbye to the kitchen staff—a stark contrast to the defiant streamer she'd been minutes before.
"Alright, that's it for the dishwashing stream. Time for that dinner," Nicky said, walking toward the private dining room. "Not sure if I'll stream tomorrow. Depends if I find work. If you know any legit gigs, drop them in the comments."
The viewer count had surpassed 20,000, many still hate-watching. Then, someone started a trend in the chat. Soon, it was spammed with: "What about moving bodies at a mortuary? You dare?" Over and over, aggressive and dark.
Nicky read the comments, didn't flinch, and instead smirked dismissively. "That's it? This is the best you've got? How disappointing."
She paused, her gaze firm, voice clear and strong. "I'm not even afraid of being poor. You think that scares me?"
"If you're so brave, drop the address and time in my DMs. I'll be there tomorrow."
With that, she ended the stream. Meanwhile, hashtags like #NickyDishwashing50Bucks and #NickyMortuaryChallenge were already climbing into TikTok's top 20 trends. More and more people were tuning into the wild debt-repayment saga of the bankrupt heiress.
Nicky adjusted her work vest, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the private dining room. The light was harsh, the air thick with smoke and alcohol—a world away from the steamy kitchen. But she didn't hesitate. This, too, was a step toward freedom. However hard, she'd keep going.