The Ice King's Chubby Fixation

POV: Elowen Hart

The Champagne glass sweated in my hand, I remember that small detail vividly.

The chill of the glass had made my fingers go numb, while the bubbles inside had died long ago. The drink sat flat and warm like water left out under the midday sun. I had been holding it for nearly an hour, too terrified to take another sip. If I drank too much, someone would inevitably whisper about the fat girl who couldn't stop eating and drinking.

The hall smelled of too many competing odors: dying flowers wilting in their pots and fish dip left over the chafing dishes for far too long. The air was turning foul—sweet and sour in the humid heat. My mother had chosen this venue. "It's cheap, Elowen," She said. You should be grateful we are helping you at all."

She had chosen everything: the flowers, the catering, even the guest list. I only got to choose my dress.

Yes, only my dress.

I saved money for six months to buy it. Six long months of skipping lunch and walking to work instead of taking the bus. I had lied to myself, thinking that when Julian saw me in it, he would look at me the way he used to—long before Livia came along. Before his eyes started drifting past me every time we spoke in public.

​The dress was a soft leaf-green, tailored to cling to my body and show off every curve. The woman at the boutique told me I looked beautiful, and I was foolish enough to believe her.

​Now, the fabric pulled painfully tight across my hips. The underwire of my bra bit into my skin as I stood beside Julian, the man I was supposed to marry. He hadn't looked at me once in the three hours we had been here. I felt enormous, ugly, unloved, and entirely in the way of everyone else's happiness.

"Elowen."

​My mother's voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade. I turned toward her table. Her glass was already empty, her mouth set in a tight line I knew all too well.

​"Stand up straight," she scolded. "You're slouching, and it makes your back look wide."

​I immediately corrected my posture, and the dress pulled even tighter against my chest. She offered a single, dismissive nod before turning back to her conversation and her drink.

​Beside me, Julian was visibly restless, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He reached out to take my hand, but his touch was cold. His fingers were long and slender—beautiful, really. I used to tell him he had the hands of a pianist, even though he had never touched an instrument in his life.

​"Julian," I murmured, keeping my voice low.

"You haven't looked at me all night."

​He didn't turn to face me.

​"Just wait a moment," he snapped. His voice sounded wrong—harsh and impatient, as though speaking to me were a tedious chore. It was as if he were waiting for something far better to arrive.

​The music shifted to a slow ballad, a song about everlasting love. Julian's grip on my hand tightened briefly, only for him to let go entirely a second later.

​He picked up his glass and tapped it with a fork. The sharp metal chime echoed across the banquet hall.

​One by one, the tables fell quiet. People turned toward us, and a cold pit formed in my stomach.

​Julian was smiling—but not at me. His eyes were fixed on the entrance doors.

​"I want to thank everyone for coming tonight," he announced, his voice carrying clearly through the silent room. "It means a lot to have the people we care about here with us."

​A few guests clapped. My mother raised her glass, while my father kept his eyes glued to his phone, his thumb tapping away at the screen.

​Julian's smile widened.

​"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he continued. "About love, and what it truly means to commit your life to someone." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "And I know for certain that I cannot do this. I'm sorry, but I cannot marry a woman I do not love—not when the woman I actually love just walked through that door."

​He let go of my hand completely. His fingers slipped away, and my arm fell lifelessly to my side. My glass tilted, spilling warm champagne over my knuckles.

​The grand double doors swung open, and Livia Monroe stepped inside.

​She looked like she had stepped off the cover of a magazine. Her dress was made of blood-red silk that clung to her flawless, hourglass figure—the kind of thinness my mother always demanded I strive for. Her dark hair cascaded down her back like liquid silk, and her lips, painted a deep crimson, curved into a mocking smile.

​She glided into the room as the crowd parted for her like royalty.

​​"Poor thing," Livia purred as she approached us, her voice carrying across the quiet hall. "Did you really think a pretty dress could hide all of... this?" ​Her gaze swept over me, lingering on my face, my waist, my hips, and my arms. ​"Julian has been miserable for years," she added smoothly. "He was just too kind to say it to your face. But I told him he needed to be brave tonight, so everyone would know the truth."

​Stopping directly in front of Julian, she placed her manicured hands on his cheeks and pulled him into a long, slow French kiss. When she finally pulled back, her red lipstick stained his lips.

​"I'm so happy you chose me," she declared loudly. "You've served your time with that one. Now you can finally be with a real woman."

​The room erupted into noise.

​Cheers and gasps filled the air. Some guests laughed, while others whispered behind their hands. My cousin clapped as if watching a theater performance, and my aunt leaned forward in her chair to get a better view. No one stood up for me. No one came to my defense.

​Desperate, I looked toward my mother, searching for any sign of support. She simply shook her head, her mouth set in a hard, disapproving line. She didn't look surprised; she looked like a woman who had been waiting for this exact moment.

​"Stay sitting," I heard her instruct my aunt. "Do you have any idea who Livia's father is? Don't let anyone see you near Elowen."

​Then she looked at me with unvarnished disgust.

​"I told you," she said, not even bothering to lower her voice. "I told you no man stays with a woman who carries that kind of weight."

​Beside her, my father held his phone high, live-streaming the entire spectacle.

​"There she is, folks," he said into his microphone, smiling broadly. "My fat daughter. Look at her face right now—see what happens when you refuse to fix your life? She never saw it coming. Stay tuned, everyone!"

​He was feeding my humiliation to strangers on the internet, grinning as my world crumbled.

​Julian slipped his arm around Livia's waist, his fingers resting easily against her side. He didn't look back at me once.

​I staggered backward. The hem of my gown caught under my heel, and I heard a sharp, sickening tear. The seam beneath my arm split open with a loud shhh-fzzzzzt, exposing my bare skin to the cool draft of the room—the soft skin I had spent years trying to conceal.

​Livia caught the sight instantly, her eyes flashing with cruel satisfaction.

​"Come on, Julian," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "We should leave. She needs time to pull herself together. This is getting embarrassing."

​They walked out together, her head resting on his shoulder like newlyweds—except I wasn't the bride.

​Unable to endure another second of the shame, I turned and fled. I ran past the cake, past the framed photographs of Julian and me that were now worthless relics, and past my father, who was still recording my disgrace. I slammed through the rear exit and burst into the cold night.

Puddles covered the ground... it must have rained while we were inside. My shoes had slipped off somewhere along the way, but I was too numb to care. Jagged stones cut into the soles of my feet as the chill crept up my legs.

​I collapsed beside a large metal dumpster. It reeked of rotting food and decaying flowers. Pressing a hand against the cold steel, I bent over, gasping for air as my body trembled violently. The tears finally spilled over. I didn't make a sound; I just stood there in my torn dress and bare, bleeding feet, weeping like a helpless child.

​This is rock bottom, I thought. There is nowhere lower than this.

​Suddenly, twin beams of light cut through the darkness.

​A sleek black car glided into the parking lot, moving slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. It came to a stop a short distance away, and the driver's side window rolled down smoothly.

​Inside sat a man shrouded in shadow. The harsh overhead sodium lights cast sharp angles across his dark hair and chiseled jawline. He wore a tailored suit that looked more expensive than anything my family could ever dream of owning.

​And his eyes—they were striking, icy silver, like polished steel before a storm. He stared at me without blinking, his expression entirely unreadable.

He tracked the tears on my face, then let his gaze drop to my torn dress, the exposed skin at my side, and my bare, mud-stained feet. He looked at me with a cold, detached gaze, the way one might observe something broken left on the side of the road.

​I parted my lips to speak, wanting to ask for help, to tell him to stop staring, or to ask who he was. But no sound escaped my throat.

​The window rolled back up, and the car glided into the rain, its red taillights shrinking until they vanished in the dark.

​In that freezing moment, I realized something terrifying: the stranger's gaze cut deeper than Julian's betrayal, deeper than my mother's coldness, and deeper than Livia's cruelty.

​He hadn't looked at me as a person to pity or mock. He had looked at me as something to be noted, evaluated, and forgotten.

​Inside, my father was likely still broadcasting my shame to the world. But as I stood alone in the dark, I felt a chilling intuition:

​The man in the black car was not done with me. He was only just getting started.