Does The Serotonin Power Diet Ending Explain Meal Plans?

The Billionaire’s Sex Diet Obsession “He doesn’t believe in love. He only believes in sex—and now, she’s the one he can’t resist.” Alexander Voss is ruthless, rich, and dangerously irresistible. To the world, he is the untouchable billionaire CEO of Voss Enterprises. Cold. Calculated. Untamed. But behind his sharp suits and piercing eyes lurks a darker hunger. For Alexander, sex isn’t romance—it’s survival. His life is ruled by a strict diet of desire: no strings, no emotions, only raw, addictive pleasure. Then comes Elena Hayes. She’s young, broke, and drowning in desperation. With her mother in the final stages of cancer and hospital bills threatening to destroy her, Elena believes landing an internship at Voss Enterprises will be her salvation. Instead, it throws her into the path of a man whose obsessions are as dangerous as his power. One late-night encounter sparks the unthinkable. One dangerous proposition changes her life. One contract binds her innocence to his darkest cravings. He offers her money. She offers her body. Neither expects obsession to take root. But the more he tastes, the more he craves. Alexander—who once controlled everything—finds his carefully measured “sex diet” spiraling out of control. Because one taste of Elena was never enough. Now, she is more than temptation. She is the addiction he cannot escape. And as desire turns into dangerous obsession, Elena realizes it won’t just be her body at risk… it will be her heart.

My older sister Jenny and I both gained weight easily, so our mother made the decision that we could eat nothing but the diet meals she made. I followed her rules as best I could. I did not even dare drink an extra drop of water. But when I stepped on the scale a month later, I weighed three hundred pounds. I rushed into Jenny's room and found her in a tight dress posing in front of the mirror. She smiled at me. "Shannon, does this dress look good on me?" Then, I saw the number on her scale. I could hardly believe it. She was down to ninety pounds. I suspected something was wrong with Mom's diet meals, so I watched everything she did, from buying groceries to cooking. As soon as my meal was ready, I carried it straight to my room so that no one could do anything with it. Another month passed, and my weight climbed to five hundred pounds. Stretch marks covered my body, and my blood pressure reached two hundred. I lost my job because of my weight, my boyfriend dumped me without warning, and my health problems tortured me. I fell into deep despair. I refused to eat Mom's meals anymore and demanded that they take me to the hospital for gastric sleeve surgery. By then, I weighed eight hundred pounds. I had severe hypertension, high blood sugar, high cholesterol, and advanced heart failure. On the second day after the surgery, I died at home from a severe infection. When I opened my eyes again, I had regressed to the day Mom first started making our meals…

I'm the heiress of the elite Graham family, and yet my life is like hell. After all, the rolls of fat keep clinging to my body. No matter how hard I try, I can never get rid of them. Even if I don't eat for the entire day, my weight still rises exponentially. When I'm on the verge of dying from organ failure, I see my parents showing up with the adopted daughter, Freya Graham, in front of my sick bed. Freya covers her nose while gazing at me with a mixture of smugness and disgust in her eyes. "Thank you so much for taking the brunt of the misfortune for me, Dakota! Otherwise, I'll be the one plagued by the fat! "Then again, you've already had it good. You've lived a lavish life for many years, after all. This lifestyle is something that you can never experience for the rest of your life!" I widen my eyes in shock. But it's because of my overwhelming emotions that I can't breathe at all. In the end, I die tragically with hatred in my eyes. It turns out I'm just the fake heiress who the Grahams have adopted. My purpose is to shoulder the misfortune that's meant for Freya this whole time! She gorges on food every day, only for all of her fat to accumulate on my body instead! When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the first day when I start putting on weight like mad. In this lifetime, since Freya doesn't want the body fat this badly, she might as well live her life as a living skeleton!

During the holiday break, my wife, Jayda Glover—the hospital's star surgeon and Chief of Cardiac Surgery—suddenly "had to work overtime." Our third-anniversary hot springs trip? Canceled. That night, I was scrolling social media when a post from her intern, Dillon Tripp, popped up. My ice-queen wife always said her "golden hands" were only for patients. Apparently, they cook now too. She was in a cartoon apron, calmly chopping vegetables. The caption read: [Thank you, Dr. Glover, for personally cooking to comfort me after I was bullied by a patient's family!] I tapped like and left a comment. [White coat to apron. Very domestic.] Ten minutes later, the whole hospital knew Cardiac Surgery's untouchable beauty had broken her rule—just to cook for a younger guy. Jayda called. Dishes clattered in the background. "You really had to embarrass me in public? He got hot water thrown on him by a patient's family today. I was just doing my duty as his mentor! "A pampered professor's kid like you wouldn't know the first thing about how hard broke med students have it. "Apologize to Dillon right now. Otherwise, no matter how much you beg later, I'm not going on that trip with you!" Beg her? I looked at the divorce papers that had just arrived on the coffee table and let out a quiet laugh. I wasn't begging anymore. From this moment on, we were strangers.

I plan on ordering some food using my husband's phone, yet I've noticed a remark that's been saved on the delivery app. "The food is for a pregnant lady. Please make sure to be hygienic and use less oil and salt when making the dishes." I can feel my heart sink. I turn my gaze toward the bathroom, where my husband is. I can't figure out why my husband, who's been firm about not wanting a child, has been ordering meals for pregnant women. After a moment of hesitation, I scroll through the delivery app's order history with shaky hands. Numerous orders have been placed with the same restaurant, one that specializes in making exquisite dishes designed for pregnant women. Each of these food orders costs more than ten thousand dollars. My husband's company address has been chosen as the delivery address, and he's also the recipient. … After exiting the delivery app, I sit on the couch and stare into space. As I look at my husband's well-defined muscles, I recall how he, who's about to hit 40, is suddenly quite invested in getting in shape over the past year. I blurt out asking, "Have you been ordering food to your office often lately?" My husband freezes for a split second. Then, he fixes me with a gentle gaze. "I do that once in a while. Why are you suddenly asking about that? By the way, I haven't had the sweet and sour meatballs you make in a long while. Can you make some for me so that I can bring them to the office for my lunch tomorrow?" I smile at him and agree to his request. Still, I toss and turn in bed as the remark about the pregnant lady in his phone keeps gnawing at me that night.

When my wife, Rosalie Wood, had her first meal after she regained consciousness, the attending doctor, Ethan Joeman, took my seat. He cut the steak while he pointed at her rosy face and looked at me with open defiance. “Do you know how medical miracles happen? It is not because of your constant presence. It is because of my in‑depth treatment.” My fingers that held the knife and fork turned pale. Ethan grew even more brazen. His feet rubbed against my wife's calves under the table. “A person in a vegetative state can still feel things. Every night after you left, I did awakening therapy for her. She said her body could not move, yet the sense of being conquered made her feel as though her soul left her body. She woke up because she wanted to feel it again. Last night, she said she wanted to thank her savior and asked me to check her firmness after recovery. She did not disappoint me.” I looked at Rosalie, who stared at the doctor with admiration, and my chest tightened. To pay for her treatment, I sold my house and car. I slept on a folding bed in this hospital for three years. I bathed her and turned her over every day. It turned out that my three years of round‑the‑clock care meant nothing compared to a few acts of harassment committed while she was vulnerable. I took a drug from my bag and smiled as I poured Ethan a glass of wine. I thought, ‘You went through a lot, yet her awakening was only a brief moment of clarity before death. She has super‑drug‑resistant syphilis. Congratulations. You caught it too.’