1

The scale beeped.

Emma Carter stared at the numbers glowing in the dim morning light, her fingers gripping the bathroom sink so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

One hundred and sixty-seven pounds.

The number hadn't changed in three weeks. Three weeks of eating nothing but dry lettuce and plain chicken breast. Three weeks of running until her lungs burned and her legs gave out. Three weeks of starving herself while spending eight hours a day surrounded by the most decadent pastries in the city.

But the number hadn't changed.

Her husband's footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Emma's stomach clenched with familiar dread. She stepped off the scale quickly, grabbing her robe and pulling it tight around her body as if the thick cotton could protect her from what was coming.

The bathroom door swung open.

Michael Carter filled the doorway—tall, handsome, with the same boyish charm that had made her fall in love with him at nineteen. But his eyes held no warmth now. They never did anymore.

"Well?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Emma swallowed hard. "It's... It's the same."

Michael's jaw tightened. "The same? Three weeks, Emma. Three weeks of me watching you eat like a bird, and you haven't lost a single pound?"

"I've been trying—"

"Trying isn't good enough." He stepped closer, and Emma instinctively backed up against the counter. "You promised me you'd lose weight. You promised me you'd get back to the woman I married."

"I can't control it," Emma whispered, hating the way her voice shook. "The medication—"

"Stop making excuses!" Michael slammed his palm against the wall beside her head, and Emma flinched. "Do you know what it's like being married to someone who let themselves go? Do you know how humiliating it is when my colleagues see you?"

Emma's eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She'd learned that crying only made him angrier.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'll try harder."

"You always say that." Michael's voice dripped with disgust. He stepped back, looking her up and down with barely concealed revulsion. "Look at yourself. You used to be beautiful. You used to be desirable. Now... you're barely a woman."

The words cut deeper than any knife.

"You let yourself go," he continued, his voice cold and clinical. "How can I desire you when you look like this?"

Emma's hands trembled as she pulled her robe tighter, instinctively trying to hide her body. She remembered a time when Michael couldn't keep his hands off her. A time when he whispered sweet things in her ear and looked at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

She remembered the early years of their marriage, when they couldn't get enough of each other. The way he'd kiss her neck, slide his hands down her back, pull her close, and whisper how beautiful she was. She remembered the passion, the heat, the way they'd spend entire weekends tangled in sheets, exploring each other's bodies.

She remembered the night they decided to try for a baby. He'd been so excited, so tender. He'd held her face in his hands and promised her everything.

"You're going to be the most beautiful mother," he'd said. "Our children will be so lucky to have you."

Those memories made the present so much worse.

"Michael," she tried, reaching for him. "Remember how we used to be? Remember how happy we were?"

He jerked away from her touch. "That was before you let yourself go."

"I didn't choose this," Emma said, her voice cracking. "I took those medications because we wanted a baby. We wanted a baby, Michael. I went through all those treatments for us."

"Don't throw that in my face," he snapped. "You think I wanted to be married to a woman who couldn't even give me a child?"

Emma felt like he'd slapped her.

The infertility treatments had been devastating. Months of injections, hormones, and crushing disappointment. Her body had changed in ways she couldn't control, and Michael had made sure she knew exactly how ugly he found her because of it.

Every night, he'd roll away from her in bed. Every morning, he'd barely look at her. Every meal, he'd criticize what she ate.

And now, he wouldn't even touch her.

"Get dressed," Michael said, turning away. "You have to go to work. And don't think you can eat any of those damn pastries. You've got a long way to go before you deserve that."

The door slammed behind him.

Emma pressed her hand over her mouth, holding back a sob. Ten years. Ten years of loving this man, supporting him through medical school, working herself to exhaustion to pay their bills while he built his career.

Ten years of believing their love was worth saving.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She'd gained sixty pounds during the treatments, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't lose it. Her body was soft, curvy, nothing like the slim girl Michael had married.

But she was still her. She was still the woman who'd chosen him, who'd loved him, who'd given up her dreams of culinary school to support his.

She was still Emma.

And somewhere, deep inside, she still believed he could love her again.

If she could just lose enough weight. If she could just be enough.