Chapter 3
Quinn's POV
"Of course, baby. The second that fat cow drops dead, I'm putting a ring on your finger."
I'm standing behind the curtain. My blood runs cold, then burns all at once.
They're not just running me into the ground and using me as a stepping stone. They want me dead. Bleed me dry, and then walk down the aisle the moment I'm in the ground.
Rage. Humiliation. Disbelief. They crash around inside my chest, but I'm not stupid enough to walk out there right now.
Spencer's a full six feet of solid grown man. If I go at him tonight, I don't win. I might not walk away at all.
I pull in a slow breath, save the recording to the cloud, and slip back to the bedroom. I lie down and close my eyes.
She loses weight every time I gain?
So as long as I keep eating, she keeps shrinking?
Good.
Camille. Spencer. You want a perfect body that badly? I'll give you exactly what you asked for.
The next morning, I've barely finished getting ready when Spencer walks in carrying a tray.
Bacon and cheese eggs, a pile of fried hash browns, and a stack of thick pancakes drowning in butter.
"Hey, I owe you an apology for last night." Spencer's wearing his best smile, the one that doesn't reach his eyes. "I got up early and went to that place on the corner you love. Come on, eat it while it's hot."
I stare at the food, grease catching the light. Last night's conversation plays back in my head. My stomach turns.
"Take it away." I look at him without blinking. "I'm not eating."
The smile drops. He sets the tray down hard on the nightstand. "Quinn, seriously? I got up at the crack of dawn to get this for you, and you're just gonna brush me off like that? Do I even matter to you?"
"I said I'm not eating." I stand up and look him straight in the eye. "Spencer, all this food you keep pushing on me — is any of it actually for my sake?"
Something flickers across his face. Panic, just for a second, before it turns into fury.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Everything I do is for you. Look at yourself. Who else is gonna put up with you like this? I've never once complained, and this is how you treat me?"
He grabs the tray and shoves it toward my face.
"Don't touch me."
I slap him. Hard. The tray hits the floor, food splattered all over him.
Spencer doesn't move. Hand pressed to his cheek, he stares at me like he's never seen me before. In his mind, I've always been the quiet one. The one who takes it. He never saw this coming.
"You just hit me." His voice twists into something ugly. "Are you out of your mind?" He raises his hand.
I don't flinch. I look him dead in the eye. "Go ahead. You lay a hand on me, just once, and I'm calling the police. Then I go stand outside your office with a sign, and everyone walking by gets to see exactly how Camille's big-shot manager treats his wife at home. You think the press would pass on that story?"
His hand freezes in the air.
He lowers it slowly, jaw tight. "Fine, Quinn. You win. Don't eat then. Starve for all I care. I'm done."
He slams the door on the way out.
I stand there in the quiet. I'm not sad. If anything, the whole place feels lighter without him in it.
I walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. The woman looking back is softer than she used to be, heavier. I run a hand over my stomach, and the corner of my mouth curls into a cold smirk.
You think cutting me off in the kitchen is going to stop me from eating, Spencer? You've got it completely backwards. I'm not just going to eat. I'm going to eat the most extravagant, most indulgent food on the planet.
I pick up my phone and dial.
"Hello, is this Mr. Fairfax? This is Quinn Whitman."
Julian Fairfax. A genuinely reclusive chef. He held three Michelin stars before he walked away from all of it and disappeared to a private estate outside the city. He cooks when the mood strikes, charges whatever he wants, and almost never takes private clients — no matter who's asking.
"Well, Miss Whitman." His voice comes through slow and unhurried. "This is a surprise. What can I do for you?"
"You know I love good food. I'd like to book your estate for a full month. Completely closed off — no visitors, no outside contact." My voice is steady, but I mean every word. "I want you to cook for me every single day. Whatever you consider your best work. No limits on ingredients. Price is not a concern. The more over the top, the better."
