Todos os capítulos de The Plus-Sized Bride No One Wanted: Too Fat to Love : Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

~ Ivy ~The bedroom in the guest house was warm, filled with the early afternoon sunlight that spilled across the hard oak floor. I stood barefoot in front of the full-length mirror, my hands resting lightly at my sides.For months, I had avoided this specific glass. Whenever I walked past, I usually trained my eyes on the floor or turned my head away out of muscle memory. But today, the room was quiet, and I forced myself to look directly at the reflection.I was still plus-sized. My thighs were thick, touching firmly beneath the hem of my cotton slip, and my hips flared outward into soft, deep curves. My stomach was round, marked by the faint, silver stretch marks of a life that had tried to break me. I hadn't starved myself to get here. I had eaten three meals a day, walked through the garden with Ethan, and let my body rest. I had lost a little weight naturally, simply because I wasn't drowning in stress, but my frame was fundamentally the same.I was curvy. I was fat.And for the

~ Ivy ~I sat on the edge of the plush green sofa in my studio, clutching my tablet so tightly my knuckles turned white. My thumb hovered over the screen. The image from the art magazine interview was queued up, ready to be posted. In the photo, I wore the deep emerald dress Ethan helped me choose. It hugged my hips, showed off my thick waist, and framed my soft shoulders without an ounce of apology.My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird."You don't have to do it if you're not ready, Ivy," Ethan said softly. He was standing near the door, wearing his dark medical scrubs with the sleeves pushed up his forearms. He smelled like mint and the clean scent of the hospital.I looked up at him. "If I keep hiding behind my artwork, I’m letting Julian and my mother win. They made me believe my body was a crime." I took a deep, shaky breath, letting the air fill my lungs. "I'm not hiding anymore."I tapped the screen. The post was live.Underneath the photo, the caption read: I w

~ Chloe ~I stared at the thick glossy magazine sitting face up on the glass table in Julian’s private suite. Ivy’s face was on the front cover. Her hair framed a glowing, confident smile, and she wore a deep emerald dress that hugged every curve of her body. Right next to her head, giant white letters read: Phoenix Rising: How One Woman Turned Pain into Power.My throat felt dry, like I had swallowed sand. My chest squeezed until I could barely draw air into my lungs."Why do you still have this on your desk?" I snapped, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at the cover.Julian didn't even look up from his laptop. His fingers clicked rhythmically against the keyboard. "It came in the morning press delivery. I was just curious.""Curious?" I stepped closer, my heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. I snatched the magazine off the table and shoved it toward his face. "You've been staring at this useless rag for three days! Look at her, Julian. She's a fat, patheti

~ Ivy ~The night air outside the gallery was cool, carrying a sharp, clean scent of fresh rain that had fallen while we were inside. I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders, feeling the smooth fabric against my arms. My hands were still warm, practically buzzing from hours of holding pens, shaking hands, and accepting congratulations from people who had actually looked at my work and seen something worth keeping."You're going to freeze if you stand out here staring at the moon," Ethan said softly.He walked down the low stone steps toward me, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark trousers. His shoulders were relaxed, but his eyes had that familiar, quiet focus on me."I'm not cold," I said, though my breath bloomed in a small white cloud between us. "I just... I needed to stand somewhere where nobody was looking at me for five minutes."Ethan chuckled, a low sound in his chest. "That might be hard from now on, Ivy. The gallery owner told me two different collectors a

~ Julian ~The folder on my desk didn’t just sit there; it throbbed like a open wound.Mason Webb sat across from me, motionless, his breath measured and deliberate. He’d survived ten years as my private investigator by learning how to look like furniture when the air in the room turned toxic."Give me the short version," I rasped. My throat felt like it was lined with glass."Ivy Monroe isn't just surviving, Julian. She's thriving," Mason said, his tone deliberately stripped of color. "She’s an artist now. Goes by I.M. Gray in high-end galleries, but the quiet money knows it’s her. Sold a canvas last week for six figures. Riverside Arts Quarter studio. Vogue wants her for a profile on rising iconoclasts."I leaned back, a bitter, copper taste filling my mouth. The woman I had discarded like trash, who I’d forced out into the rain with nothing but a taped-up cardboard box, was painting things rich men bought to feel cultured. It was obscene. It was an insult to the order of things."A