The Chubby Wife He Couldn't Forget

DAISY

“You look like a sack of potatoes that gave up on life,” Mom hissed, yanking at the hem of my navy dress. “Look at that tummy, Daisy! It’s bigger than your whole body. Who’s going to want a bloated cow like you? Suck it in before we get there!”

I stared at the floor of our beat-up car, my cheeks burning hotter than the broken AC. My older sister, Chloe, snickered from the front seat. “Maybe if she stopped eating everything in the fridge, Dad wouldn’t have to sell her off like this.”

“Enough,” Dad snapped, but his voice was tired, not protective. “This marriage will clear my debts to the Whitmores. You should be grateful, Daisy. Mr. Camden is rich. Powerful. You get to be useful for once.”

I didn’t answer. What was there to say? At twenty-four, I was the family disappointment—chubby, quiet, and apparently unlovable. Society agreed. The aunties at church, the neighbors, even the guy at the corner store who called me “Big Mama” like it was cute.

I just wanted to disappear.

The mansion rose up like something from a movie...massive white walls, sparkling fountains, and gates that opened like they were judging us. We were led into a luxurious sitting room that smelled like money and roses.

An hour passed and there was no sign of Camden Whitmore or his family. Just us, sitting like forgotten furniture.

My stomach twisted. Another rejection waiting to happen. I could already picture his disgust when he saw me.

“I… I need to use the bathroom,” I mumbled, standing up on shaky legs.

Mom glared. “Don’t take forever. And don’t touch anything!”

I nodded and slipped away, my heart hammering. Instead of finding the guest bathroom, I wandered down a long hallway, past expensive art and closed doors. Screw this. I wasn’t going to sit there like a sacrificial lamb. I’d find the back door, slip out, and figure out the rest later. Dad could be mad. At least I wouldn’t have to endure another man looking at me like I was a mistake.

But this house was a maze. I pushed open a heavy door, thinking it might lead to stairs or another corridor, and froze.

It was a bedroom. A huge, masculine bedroom.

"Wrong room. Turn around, Daisy." I said to myself.

But then I spotted the massive window. It was open, cool breeze floating in. The ground wasn’t that far down. Maybe two stories? I could climb out, jump into the bushes, and run.

I kicked off my heels and hiked up my dress, my heart racing with desperate hope. One leg over the sill...

“What the hell are you doing?”

The deep, amused voice nearly made me fall forward. I whipped around so fast I almost lost balance.

And there he was.

A man. Tall. Insanely built. Water droplets still sliding down his bare chest from the shower. Only a white towel wrapped low around his hips. He had dark hair, it was wet and messy, and his eyes the color of expensive whiskey. He looked like trouble wrapped in sin.

"Holy mother of...."

I stared. He stared back. A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his lips.

“Are you a new maid?” he asked, his voice smooth like velvet. “Because the agency usually warns me before they send someone who tries to jump out my window.”

My mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I—I’m not a maid!”

He raised one perfect eyebrow, crossing his arms over that ridiculous chest. The movement made muscles flex. I hated how aware I was of it.

“Then who are you, little escape artist? And why are you in my bedroom?”

I swallowed hard. Heat crawled up my neck. “I’m… here to see my husband-to-be. Or at least that’s what my parents dragged me here for. But I changed my mind. I’m leaving.”

His smile widened, slow and curious. “Husband-to-be? Interesting. And why the dramatic exit? The window seems excessive.”

“Because this is humiliating!” The words burst out before I could stop them. “My family’s been waiting downstairs for over an hour like beggars while he sits upstairs doing whatever rich guys do. If he had any respect, he’d be down there. But no—he’s probably laughing at the idea of marrying someone like me. Chubby. Plain. A walking debt payment.” My voice cracked a little. “I’m done. I’d rather jump than sit through another second of being looked at like I’m disgusting.”

He watched me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those eyes. Then he stepped closer. The scent of his soap hit me.

“Don’t hate him just yet,” he said calmly, almost gently. “You haven’t even met him. Maybe he’s not as rude as you think.”

I laughed bitterly, still half-perched on the window sill. “Trust me. I’ve made up my mind. All rich guys are the same. Arrogant and entitled. They think money fixes everything and women are accessories.”

He tilted his head. “Harsh. But fair assessment from your side of the window.” His gaze swept over me. Almost… intrigued? “Please come down from there”

I blinked. “And who are you....?"

Before he could answer, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” he called, his voice carrying that natural command.

The door opened. An older butler in a crisp suit stepped in and bowed slightly.

“Young Master Camden, your bride and her family are seated downstairs and have been waiting for some time. Shall I tell them you’ll be down shortly?”

The world stopped.

My eyes widened in pure horror as the pieces slammed together.

"Young Master Camden."

This was him. The man in the towel. The one I’d just called rude, arrogant, and entitled while trying to leap out his window like a deranged raccoon.

Camden’s smile turned positively wicked as he looked straight at me, his towel still hanging dangerously low.

“It’s you??” I squeaked, nearly falling backward out the window for real this time.