Every Pound I Gain Kills Her

Quinn's POV

My husband Spencer quit his job to manage a rising model's career. In six months, she dropped the weight, blew up online, and turned into a supermodel — magazine covers, major runways, deal after deal.

Meanwhile, I watch myself expand by the day. Bloated. Double chin forming. Skin getting worse.

The whole world calls me greedy, lazy, out of control. Even my parents call to tell me to watch what I eat. And there's nothing I can say to make anyone understand.

Then one night, I catch them on the balcony, voices low, thinking no one can hear: "Forget about that fat cow. Once she drops dead, the house and the insurance are all ours."

That's when it finally makes sense.

Camille has a system tied to her. And it's tied to me.

Every pound I gain, she loses one.

I'm the fuel. The stepping stone. The inheritance they're waiting to collect.

She gets thin while I get fat?

So as long as I keep eating, she keeps losing weight?

Good.

I go ahead and spend a hundred grand booking a reclusive private chef for a full month. No limits on ingredients, price doesn't matter. The more extravagant, the better.

I'm going to eat whatever I want and actually enjoy my life.

Let's see how long she stays thin while I'm out here actually living my life.

"Come on, baby, one more bite. I spent four hours on this butter and cheese lobster. You're really gonna let it go to waste?"

Spencer sits across from me at the dinner table, wearing that warm, patient smile, holding a bowl with the spoon loaded with shrimp smothered in butter and melted cheese. He's still in his apron. He looks like a picture-perfect husband. My stomach, though, feels like it's packed with wet cement.

"I seriously cannot eat anymore." I push the bowl away. "Spencer, I've put on almost twenty pounds this month. Nothing I own fits me anymore. I get winded climbing a flight of stairs. I can't keep doing this."

His expression changes instantly. The warmth drains right out of his face, replaced by that familiar mix of irritation and self-pity.

"What is that supposed to mean, Quinn? I'm out there all day running around, and I still come home and cook for you. Everything I do is for you." He knocks the bowl onto the table. "You think the food's bad? Or you just don't give a damn about any of it?"

Same script. Every single time.

Six months ago, Spencer left his job to manage a newcomer named Camille Brooks. And ever since, he's been a completely different person. The man who used to burn water on the stove suddenly developed this passion for cooking, except everything he makes is pure fat and calories. Fried chicken, mac and cheese, deep-dish pizza, cheesecake. He feeds me like it's his full-time job, and the second I push back, he runs the same lines: you don't love me, you don't appreciate anything I do.

I used to be a dance instructor. Kept myself at 115 pounds for years. Now I'm sitting at 155. The neck I used to be so proud of is buried under a double chin now. The waist that once fit into an XS can't squeeze into an XL.

I've become someone I don't recognize. Insecure. Anxious. Too ashamed to leave the house.

And through all of it, Spencer wraps his arms around me and says things like, "I love your curves. My girl deserves to be spoiled. Doesn't matter how thin anyone else is. Nobody feels as good to hold as you do."

I breathe through it. Pick up my fork. Spear a piece of shrimp and put it in my mouth.

The look that crosses Spencer's face when I give in is something I can't quite name. He reaches over and strokes my hair. "There you go. Keep eating. Real women have meat on them, babe."

Real women.

I stare at the stretch marks crawling up my thighs, red and raw from how fast the weight came on. All I feel is panic.

The TV in the living room is streaming this year's fashion showcase live.

The camera sweeps across the runway. A woman with long legs and a body built for the spotlight walks out with total ease. She's in a diamond-encrusted set that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her waist is impossibly narrow. Every muscle in her core is on full display. Not a single ounce of anything extra.

That's Camille Brooks.

Six months ago she was barely hanging on in the industry. A little too soft, they said. Not booking anything real, grinding the lower-tier circuit just to stay relevant. Then Spencer signed on as her manager, and something changed.

Day by day she gets a little thinner. A little more polished. A little more visible.

Magazine covers. Major runways. Big brand deals. She's everywhere.

"God, Camille looks incredible." Spencer follows my gaze to the screen. Something flickers behind his eyes, hungry and greedy, before he catches himself. He shifts his attention back to me, spoon already aimed at my mouth. "Come on, baby. Finish this bite and I'll clean up and come to bed."

I look at him. "She really is something. Funny thing is, I've seen her posts — dessert runs, bar food, all of it. How does she never gain a single pound?"