Claiming His Plus Size Contract Wife

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Alessia pulled at the edges of her red dress and swallowed hard. The fabric stretched tight across her stomach and thighs. She looked at her reflection, hating the heavy arms framing her body and the soft rolls beneath her waist. She was fat. There was no other word for it, no soft way to sugarcoat it.

She looked like a completely different person from the girl Evander had married three years ago. Back then, her skin was smooth, her waist was small, and her laugh was light. But after the miscarriage, everything fell apart. The pain, the stress, and the sleepless nights had turned her body into a heavy cage. She had gained so much weight that sometimes, she didn't even recognize herself in the mirror.

Tonight was their anniversary. She wanted so badly to believe that things could change. She wanted to remember what it felt like to be loved, to be held, and to be wanted.

Alessia spent her savings from her long shifts at the eatery to book a smooth, high-end hotel room downtown. She bought candles, arranged sweet flowers by the bedside, and asked the staff to set up a nice dinner. She smoothed out the wrinkles on the white bedsheets, her heart beating fast like a young girl on a first date.

Tonight will be different, she told herself, biting her lower lip to stop the tears that always threatened to fall whenever she thought about her marriage. He will see how hard I am trying. He will remember us.

By 8:00 PM, everything was ready. The food was warm, and the candles burned softly, filling the room with a sweet smell. Alessia sat on the edge of the large bed, checking her phone every two minutes.

By 9:00 PM, the food was already cold. The room felt bigger, colder, and empty.

Alessia picked up her phone and dialed Evander’s number. It rang once, twice, and then went straight to busy. He had declined her call.

"Maybe he is in a meeting," she murmured out loud to the empty room. Her voice sounded small and desperate. "Yes, he is working hard. He is just busy."

She waited another thirty minutes before calling again. Again, the phone rang briefly before cut off. Busy.

She called a third time. Busy.

By 10:00 PM, the candles had burned down to tiny lumps of wax. The silence in the hotel room was so heavy it felt like a hand pressing down on her chest. Alessia looked at the untouched plates of food. Her hands began to shake. It wasn't just about tonight. It was about the last four months. Four long, painful months where her husband had not touched her, had not held her hand, and had looked at her body with cold disgust.

Whenever she tried to stand close to him, he would move away as if her skin was hot grease. Whenever she tried to talk to him about her father's brain condition and the one hundred thousand dollars needed for the surgery, he would sigh, complain about stress, and make excuses to leave the house.

He promised he would pay for her father's surgery, she thought, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. He promised he would handle it. Maybe he forgot tonight because he is working to get the money.

She couldn't just sit in this silent room anymore. Her heart was beating too fast, filled with fear and anger. She grabbed her fake designer purse, took off her heels because her swollen feet hurt so much, and put on her simple flat shoes. She checked out of the hotel room, the receptionist looking at her with quiet pity that made Alessia's face burn with shame.

She took a taxi back to their house. The ride was quiet, the city lights passing by like blurry yellow lines outside her window. All she could think about was her father lying in that cold hospital bed, machines beep-beeping around his head, waiting for a surgery they couldn't afford. And her husband, the man who held her hand at the altar, was turning into a stranger.

When the taxi dropped her off outside their two-story house, the lights on the ground floor were completely dark. Evander’s car was parked in the driveway.

"He is home," Alessia whispered to herself, feeling a strange mix of relief and confusion. "Why didn't he pick up my calls if he was at home?"

She walked up the front steps, her heavy steps making quiet thuds on the concrete. She unlocked the front door as quietly as she could, pushing it open. The living room was dark and silent. The air smelled faintly of cheap, sweet perfume—a scent that didn't belong to her.

Alessia froze at the doorway. Her skin turned cold.

She walked slowly into the hallway, her heart pounding violently against her ribs like a trapped bird. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, a sound floated down from the upper floor.

It was a sharp sound. A moan.

Alessia stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She gripped the wooden banister so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Harder, Evander... hit me harder... fuck me, fuck me..." a woman's voice gasped from the master bedroom.

Alessia felt like someone had punched her straight in the stomach. All the air left her lungs in one painful gasp. She couldn't move. Her legs felt like heavy blocks of wood stuck to the floor.

Then came her husband’s voice. It was heavy, rough with passion—a voice she hadn't heard in over a year.

"You feel so damn good," Evander groaned out loud, followed by the loud, wet slap of skin against skin. "So tight. Not like that ugly, plus-sized, useless wife of mine. God, she disgusts me. I can't even stand to look at her fat body."

The woman laughed, a high, soft sound that cut through Alessia's chest like a rusty knife. "When are you going to send her away, baby? I want to move into this house. I'm tired of waiting in secret."

"Don't worry, very soon, baby," Evander replied, his voice soft and sweet, the same way he used to talk to Alessia when they were first in love. "A few more days and I'll throw her out. She has nowhere to go anyway."

Tears flooded Alessia's eyes, burning her cheeks as they fell. Every word was like a whip hitting her open skin. She thought about her spent savings, the cold hotel room, her sick father dying in the hospital, and her own body that she hated so much.

Anger, hot and sharp, exploded inside her chest, washing away the fear. She didn't care that she was big. She didn't care that she was ugly in his eyes.

She marched up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, her heavy feet shaking the wooden floorboards. She reached the master bedroom door, which was pushed half-open.

Without waiting, without thinking, Alessia shoved the door open with all her weight. It hit the wall with a loud, thunderous crash.

"What the fuck is going on here?!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

The two bodies on the bed scrambled apart in shock, pulling the white sheets frantically over their skin. They turned around, breathless and flushed.

Alessia stared at the bed, her mouth falling open as her heart completely stopped.

The woman sitting naked beside her husband wasn't a random girl from a club.

It was Liora—her best friend.