CHAPTER 3:THE GALA

I did not own a gala dress.

I owned two leggings, three crop tops, and a church dress from 2019 that didn't fit my hips anymore.

So when Mrs. Potts rolled in a rack at 6 PM with five gowns that looked like they cost my rent for a year, I almost fainted.

"Mr. De Luca ordered these," she said. "He said red. He said your size is 16, right, honey? Not 8."

16. She said it proudly. Like it was royalty.

The red dress was... sin. Off-shoulder, hugging my chubby arms, my soft waist, my thick thighs, slit up to my knee. My boobs — which I always tried to hide — were finally celebrated.

I looked in the mirror and cried.

I looked... like a queen.

Lily clapped. "You look like princess! Like my mommy but more soft!"

More soft. That was the best compliment of my life.

At 7 PM, the door opened.

Luciano De Luca in a black tux. Hair slicked. Beard trimmed. Billionaire surgeon who could own Manhattan.

He stopped when he saw me.

His eyes went dark. Possessive. Dangerous.

"Turn around," he commanded, voice hoarse.

I turned, scared.

Silence.

Then he walked to me, slowly. Took my chin.

"Isabella Reyes, if you walk into that ballroom like this, every man in New York will want to touch you. And I will have to break every hand in the room. Do you want that?"

I swallowed. "I— I can change—"

"No."

He pulled out another black box. Bigger. Inside — diamond earrings and a matching choker that said MINE in small diamonds on the back.

"You're not changing. You're wearing this. And you are not my nanny tonight."

My heart stopped. "Then what am I?"

He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, his hand firmly on my soft waist — gripping it this time, not brushing.

"My fiancée. For one night. My ex-wife will be there. The board will be there. They need to see I'm stable. Not a cold divorcee. A man with a queen. You will stand next to me, you will smile, you will let me touch you like you are mine. And tomorrow, you get $10,000 bonus."

Fake fiancée. $10,000. For touching.

"And if I say no?"

"Then you still go, in that red dress, and I still touch you. But you don't get $10,000."

That smirk. That bastard smirk.

"You are blackmailing me with diamonds?"

"I'm obsessed with you, Isabella. Blackmail is the least I will do."

Lily giggled. "Papa says you are his queen now!"

The car ride was silent. His hand on my thigh the whole time. In the ballroom — chandeliers, champagne, billionaires — everyone stared.

"De Luca? Who is this?" his best friend, Alex, choked.

"My fiancée, Isabella," Luciano said, pulling me into his chest, his arm around my soft waist, possessive. "My chubby queen. The future Mrs. De Luca."

Gasps.

His ex-wife, Vanessa — skinny, model, perfect — walked over, eyes blazing.

"Luciano, darling, you hired... this? For Lily?"

Isabella froze. The room laughed.

Luciano's grip on my waist tightened to pain.

He looked at Vanessa, cold as a scalpel.

"This," he said loudly, so the whole room heard, "is the woman who made my daughter smile again. This is the woman who sleeps next to my daughter. This is the woman who wears my diamonds. And if anyone in this room has a problem with her body, her size, her dress — you have a problem with me. And you will leave my penthouse, my hospital, and my city."

Silence.

Vanessa's face turned red. "You can't be serious—"

"I have never been more serious. She is a size 16. She is soft. She is unforgettable. And she is mine. Anyone who calls her chubby as an insult will be sued. I call her chubby queen as a crown."

He looked down at me, and his eyes — for the first time — were soft.

"Smile, my queen. You own this room."

And I did. I smiled, in my red dress, with my soft belly, my thick thighs, and a billionaire's hand on my waist, while a room full of skinny models stared.

I was Isabella Reyes. 25. Broke yesterday.

Today — I was De Luca's chubby queen.

And fake was starting to feel very, very real.

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