Chapter 4
Quinn's POV
There's a brief silence on the other end. Then Mr. Fairfax laughs. "Interesting. Fair warning though — I don't come cheap."
"Money isn't an issue. I'll wire you a hundred grand as a deposit right now." I say it without blinking.
"Deal. Come whenever you're ready."
That afternoon, I'm packing when my phone buzzes.
A text from Camille.
"Quinn, heard you and Spencer had a little fight? Aw, don't worry about it — couples argue all the time. Spencer said you wanted to get out and clear your head for a bit. Oh, and perfect timing — I have a celebration dinner tonight and he's coming with me. We might just stay at your place after. You don't mind if we use the bed, right? 😜"
I read it once. I feel nothing. If anything, I almost laugh.
She's taking over my home and has the nerve to rub it in my face. All because of a system she thinks makes her untouchable.
The old Quinn would have been shaking right now, ready to storm back and catch them in the act. But standing here, all I see are two clowns dancing at the edge of a trap they walked into themselves.
I type back: "Not at all. Make yourselves at home. Have fun."
I hit send, then turn around and drag a box out of the storage closet. Inside are a dozen compact wireless cameras I'd ordered for same-day delivery.
I spend the next two hours placing them throughout the apartment — living room, bedroom, bathroom, every blind spot I can find. Behind the vent covers, behind the cable box, hidden behind a plant in the corner.
Each one feeds into a private server I've rented, and I set up a scheduled livestream.
At eight o'clock sharp, everything goes live across the biggest streaming platforms out there.
Once that's done, I dust off my hands, grab my suitcase, and walk out without looking back.
I call a car and head straight to the Fairfax estate.
The property sits deep in the woods outside the city, quiet and completely cut off from the world.
Mr. Fairfax is already waiting at the front door. He takes one look at me and gives an easy nod, then hands over a thick menu.
"Miss Whitman, as we discussed, I'll be holding on to all your devices for the duration of your stay. No internet on the property either. A full month, completely off the grid — no one in, no distractions."
"Perfect." I power down my phone, hand it over, and take the menu.
"I've planned out the full month myself. Every single dish is something I'm proud of. You won't be disappointed."
I scan the first page. Tonight's dinner: French black truffle foie gras on toasted brioche, A5 Wagyu Wellington, Boston lobster baked under a double layer of cheese, and a lava cake drowning in dark chocolate sauce.
I close the menu and nod. Then I walk inside.
The next month is unlike anything I've ever let myself have.
No Spencer running games on me. No counting anything. Just food, and the full freedom to enjoy it.
Mornings are glazed donuts and rich buttery bisque. Lunches are whole roasted meats and fried chicken buried under cheese. Dinners are rich deep-sea fish and mountains of carbs.
I can feel my body expanding at a pace that would have terrified me six months ago. My clothes get tighter every week. By the end, I feel my thighs press together when I walk.
But I don't feel an ounce of shame. What I feel instead is something darker, something deliberate — a satisfaction I couldn't have imagined before any of this.
I close my eyes. Only one thought in my head:
Keep going, Quinn. Keep eating.
Camille. Spencer. Enjoy yourselves while you still can.
Thirty days disappear inside those walls.
The last time I set down my fork and wipe my mouth, Mr. Fairfax brings my phone over.
"Miss Whitman, your month is up. I have to say — your appetite has been something I won't forget anytime soon." He looks at my noticeably fuller frame, something close to awe in his expression.
"Thank you for having me." I take the phone and power it on.
The screen barely loads before it freezes for a solid five minutes. Missed calls, texts, notifications — they all come flooding in at once, buzzing so hard my hand goes numb.
I find a comfortable spot on the sofa, open my messages, and pull up Spencer's thread.
The second I tap it, the messages pour out: [Quinn, you stupid b*tch. Did you put cameras in the house? You think you can do that to me? Get back here right now and explain yourself, or I swear to God you're dead.]
