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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 42 - 45
🕑 Added 2025-03-31 19:08:12 +0000 UTCChapter 42
Days later, and I still couldn’t fucking believe fucking Sam Walters.
If karma existed, I'd be lounging on a velvet throne, sipping champagne while Jordan and Chase took turns rearranging fucking Sam’s smug, lying face into abstract art.
But karma? Nowhere to be found.
He set me up.
Made me that drink.
Knew exactly what he was doing.
And I walked right into it.
Instead of a W-2, cushy benefits, and a paycheck hitting my account like clockwork—security—I had nothing.
No severance package. No safety net. Just boxes.
Stacks of them, cluttering my brand-new, too-big, too-expensive condo, silently mocking every reckless, late-night purchase I made when I thought my contract renewal was a sure thing. When I thought I had time. When I thought I had Google.
Because yeah, too late now. No backing out. I had to go through with it. Had to move in, unpack, make this place a home.
But also? I tried to remember how badly I wanted this.
The high-rise. The sleek marble. The luxury.
Not like this, though. Not because some smug, perverted prick thought he could play me like a fool just because I wouldn’t let him put his disgusting hands on me.
And now I had no choice but to make it work.
Because fucking Sam didn’t just screw me over.
He tried to ruin me.
Google? Gone. Chase and Jordan? Out of my life. Dad? Not here to help me sort through the mess, unpack boxes, or give me that look that said, ‘Celeste, what the hell were you thinking?’
Not that I needed to hear it.
And standing there, breathing too hard, arms crossed tight under my boobs, watching the movers haul my life from Queen Anne into this condo I fought for, this condo I earned—
Now it felt too empty. Too fucking real.
Three bedrooms. Had I been out of my damn mind? Who needed three bedrooms when it was just me?
Deep in my gut, doubt curled tight. That low, insidious whisper slinking in, needling at me.
I’d bitten off way more than I could chew.
Because fucking Sam Walters, that smug, perverted, backstabbing piece of shit, had made damn sure I lost a third of my income right after I signed the mortgage on this place.
I had to make this work. Somehow.
The views were unreal. Seattle stretched wide beneath me—Queen Anne and Capitol Hill rolling out in opposite directions, Lake Union shimmering between like a postcard, making it all look effortless, glamorous, like something I should feel lucky to have. From my balcony, I could sip wine, stare down at the city like the queen that I was.
Inside? It felt too big.
The master bedroom was huge, and the walk-in closet might actually keep up with my wardrobe… maybe.
The master bath? Three-headed shower, spa jets, a jacuzzi tub big enough to fit me with room to spare. Unlike the one in my old Queen Anne place that was getting way too familiar with my hips.
This was it. Big. Luxurious. Built for a goddess.
Now I just had to keep the money flowing—Cel Monroe, full-time.
Because fucking Sam Walters took everything else.
As the movers shuffled past, voices echoing, my heels clicking across polished oak, I felt it. The emptiness.
Not just the hit to my bank account.
It was the people. The excuse to leave the house. The routine. The background noise—meetings I half-listened to, office gossip I pretended not to care about… all the little things that made life feel normal.
I hated admitting it because Google sucked butt, and I’d always been the girl who restored herself in solitude.
Now the silence was different. Heavy.
So I did what any rational person who just got royally fucked over and was drowning in a terrifying mortgage would do.
I spent more money.
Every inch of this place? Had to be perfect. Whether I could really afford it or not.
Didn’t touch the two spare bedrooms yet—couldn’t deal with those. But the rest? Every light had to glow warm and soft, the rugs had to feel like clouds under my bare feet.
I needed throw pillows. Hundreds of dollars in throw pillows. Plush, oversized, ridiculously expensive throw pillows, stacked on every couch, every chair, my entire queen-sized, high-thread-count-sheeted bed—which, now that I thought about it, maybe needed an upgrade to a king.
I knew I should start looking at prices, maybe rein it in, practice some kind of restraint.
But was I?
Umm… no.
Was I hate spending?
Absolutely.
Could I stop myself?
Well… maybe every single dollar I dropped into this condo was a giant, cashmere-wrapped, designer-scented fuck you to fucking Sam Walters.
And that felt worth it.
So I kept going. More pillows. More rugs. More candles—because my place was gonna smell rich, warm, and lived in by a woman who knew exactly what she was worth.
Velvet drapes. A tub tray built for wine, cake, and anything else I craved.
Me, stretched out—legs parted, steam rising, bubbles sliding over skin aching to be touched.
Second dessert? Maybe third. Who was counting?
Phone in hand, scrolling through DMs, smirking at the poor souls begging for a glimpse beneath the water.
And when the place finally looked like it belonged to me—when every candle flickered just right, when the plush throws were draped just so—I did what I did best.
I threw myself into my real work.
Because now I really, really had to.
More Cel Monroe flooding feeds—Instagram, OnlyFans, tiktok, everywhere. My face, my ass, my curves on display.
And hell, I even started eyeing Patreon—because more income streams? Never a bad idea.
Jenna still showed up a couple times a week—mostly to glare at me, arms crossed, while I smoked, ate, drank wine, and ranted about fucking Sam Walters.
She was pissed too.
Livid.
Hated him almost as much as I did.
But the days of her showing up with Crumbl cookies, plopping onto my couch, ranting about quitting Google so we could score another recruiting gig together? Long gone. Guess her loyalty to corporate life ran deeper than cookies and friendship. Not that I was mad about it.
Whatever. I could make self-employment work. Obviously a big part of me had wanted to quit Google for a long time anyway.
If my fans wanted more of me, I’d give it to them—then sit back, let the dollars roll in, and keep the bills paid, the mortgage covered, the lifestyle intact.
I tried to socialize, just enough to keep Aaron off my mind, to shove down the jealousy that Jenna got to have him. Just enough to forget about Jordan and Chase—the way they used to spoil me, touch me, feed me.
So I swiped. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge—whatever, I reactivated them all. Matched with hot, successful, forgettable men whose names faded the second my door shut behind them. Let them wine me, dine me, never hesitated to order more than they did—not like they were gonna complain.
I was chasing something—connection, attention, maybe just distraction. Anything to quiet the ache twisting deep inside me.
But every time my subscriber count stalled, every time my payouts dipped, that anxiety? It clawed deeper. Sank in harder. Refused to let go.
I was living my dream, doing exactly what I set out to do.
But with that constant buzz of worry in my brain, the pressure never let up.
It wasn’t effortless like I thought it’d be.
No schedule. No structure to drag my butt out of bed. Just me, drifting, slipping deeper into a lazy, lush haze, wrapped in soft sheets, stretching like a spoiled cat, only getting up when absolutely necessary—to eat, to smoke, to film.
Days blurred into nights, long, indulgent, luxurious. The hardest decisions? What kind of cake to order. What angle had the best lighting. Which too-tight, booty-hugging outfit I’d pour myself into next.
I lounged around in next-to-nothing, teasing, tempting, turning myself on just as much as my audience, every sensual curve captured in perfect, shameless detail for a camera that worshipped me.
That Catwoman costume I bought for Google’s Halloween party?
Yeah, that belonged to Cel Monroe now.
Zipped up tight—just barely. Love handles spilling into the sides, back-fat pushing through like the suit was doing its best to keep up and losing the fight. My thighs pulled at every stitch, seams screaming for mercy, and my ass?
Let’s just say it was testing the limits of spandex with every slow, sultry step.
My fans were losing it—raving about how wide I was getting, how I was officially hitting BBW status.
So, naturally, I gave them more.
They wanted to watch me eat? No problem.
Wanted to buy me food? Twist my arm.
Watch me grow?
Absolutely. I leaned in, slow and shameless, giving them every soft, heavy inch they were begging for.
I filmed myself sinking into pure pleasure, hands roaming slow over my belly, cupping rolls that hadn’t been there months ago, showcasing thighs now thicker than my waist used to be, ass bouncing heavy with every move. Plenty of before-and-after shots to show off every extra inch I’d embraced.
The cigarettes multiplied, packs disappearing faster than I could track. But at least I was vaping less—gotta count the little wins.
Every night, I was out on my balcony—wrapped in my silk nightie and a thick fleece blanket, cigarette in one hand, wineglass in the other.
Smoke curled into the Seattle night, my thighs pressed close, my widening ass spreading soft into the cushion of my brand-new outdoor sofa—four grand, thank you very much. And yeah, I know I have a shopping problem. I also have taste.
The heater hummed, ashtray full of lipstick-stained butts, an unread copy of Girl With Curious Hair tossed on the side table beside a half-empty bottle of Pinot—emptying faster than I planned.
Below me? Glittering city lights. Tiny cars. Tiny lives. All of it beneath me, literally and otherwise.
I was stoned. Tipsy. Bloated, burping up cupcakes like it was cute. Plotting the downfall of fucking Sam Walters with a smirk on my lips and full-blown vengeance in my heart.
Still, I treated every night like it was Friday night.
Every day? A holiday.
Speaking of holidays...
Chapter 43
No way in hell was I walking into Dad’s house alone this Thanksgiving. Not at my current size. Not ready to explain why I’d packed up and moved. Definitely not in the mood to dodge questions about Google, my new place, or how I was affording it. Didn’t want to tell them. Didn’t want to talk about it.
My weight was going to be enough of an issue for them.
I could already feel it—Grandma Livia’s still somehow laser eyes scanning every inch of me, Uncle Bob’s running commentary locked and loaded, Claire’s sharp-edged judgment aimed straight at every pound I’d put on.
So, I brought Rory.
Met him online. Successful. Handsome in that totally uninteresting Chris Evans kind of way. Boring as fuck.
In other words? Perfect.
And bonus—he was a young, local TV weatherman. The kind only Dad and Diana actually watched. One of those solid B-list celebrities Gen Xers still trusted like gospel. Instant approval rating from the fam.
Rory did exactly what I needed him to do—flashed that practiced, perfect smile, charmed Grandma, and shut Uncle Bob right the hell up.
But even Rory, with all his sunny charm and spot-on forecast grin, couldn’t erase the shock rippling through their faces. Apparently, me showing up tipping the scales at two-sixty-something was like committing a felony.
I swear to God, I thought Grandma was gonna clutch her pearls and keel over when she saw me.
Chocolate-brown bodycon dress, painted on like a second skin. Hugging, every bulge, the fabric clinging like it knew exactly what it was working with. A sexy contrast to my thick blonde waves, blue eyes, and makeup blended to perfection—sharp contour, just enough highlight, all working overtime to downplay my rounder face, the slowly drooping double chin I wasn’t quite ready to flaunt.
But the rest? Oh, that was on full display.
Ass round, wide, deep, soft and heavy—moving with every step like it had its own damn gravitational pull.
And yeah, they noticed.
Dad and Christopher did a double take, their expressions flickering between disbelief, confusion, and full-on concern.
God, it’s amazing how brainwashed people are by society when it comes to weight gain.
After dinner, I made a beeline for Dad’s couch—needed something softer under me, something to ease the throb in my lower back and get me away from the noise, the questions, the staring. I sank deep, thighs spread wider than ever, claiming their space.
My plate was stacked shamelessly high with seconds—turkey drowning in gravy, mashed potatoes thick with butter and cheese, pumpkin pie smothered in whipped cream.
But then my sister just had to come and invade my space.
Because of course she did.
Claire—Dr. Claire. Fresh out of dental school. Board-certified. Savior of teeth and gums everywhere. Eight years buried in textbooks, hunched over cadaver mouths, memorizing every grim statistic about gum disease, oral cancer, and how sugar was basically the devil.
While she was drilling teeth, I was becoming Cel Monroe.
Curves. Opulence. Beauty. A body that made men weak. Made them beg.
But Claire didn’t know that.
And she sure as hell didn’t see that, though she would if she spent more time noticing the way her boyfriend was constantly drooling over me.
Claire saw numbers. Risks. Fucking BMI charts.
She saw the way my breath hitched a little too fast after climbing the three measly porch steps when I arrived with Rory. The way I adjusted my dress when I sat, shifting to make space for my hips, my belly, the thick swell of my thighs.
And because she was Claire, she waited.
Waited until I was settled, relaxed, mid-bite of pumpkin pie, fork halfway to my mouth, fully embracing the holiday spirit.
Then—boom. She sat down, her gaze sweeping over the way my belly folded into thick, huge rolls over my lap. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her wide-eyed stare borderline horrified.
And then, in that tight, clipped Claire voice—the one that always made me feel like I was being audited and failing—she dropped it.
"Cel, your weight…what the hell?”
I licked whipped cream off my fork, cheeks burning, stomach tightening under the heavy press of itself. “Jesus, (pant) could you be any more subtle?”
“Could your boobs be any less subtle?” she shot back, dry as ever, her gaze flicking to the extra cleavage my dress was barely holding in check. Then she sighed, her tone shifting—less sharp, almost worried. “Seriously. This isn’t something you can just work off at the gym anymore. What is going on with you?”
I glanced down at my plate, then at the way my ass took up most of the couch cushion compared to Claire’s slender little thighs draped neatly in her flowy charcoal dress. “Nothing’s going (pant) on. I just stopped obsessing over calories. I’m, like, way happier now.”
Claire arched a brow. The kind that screamed bullshit.
“Are you, though?”
God. That tone. That calm, clinical, detached tone doctors use when they’re trying to break bad news gently.
“You’ve gotten so big,” she said, voice low, like she was delivering some scandalous secret. “Do you know how unhealthy that is?”
I sighed, took a sip of wine. “Whatever. (huff) I feel good. I look good. And I like to eat.” Big-ass bite of pie, just to prove a point.
“Cel, I’m serious.”
“So (chew, chew) am I.” I swallowed, licked my lips. “I’m just curvy that's all.”
“You’re more than curvy. I don’t know how your joints can even handle you carrying all this extra weight. And what about diabetes?”
I shifted, belly pressing heavier into my lap, thighs spreading wider. My pulse kicked up—not from nerves. From frustration.
“Claire, (huff) I’m fine.” Fork digging into my pie, aggressive. “Just because I don’t live off kale smoothies and suffering doesn’t mean I don’t eat healthy.” Another bite. Bigger than necessary. “And (chew, chew) anyway, I was working out (chew) with Chase and Jordan. I’m just taking a break for the holidays.”
Claire leaned in, nose wrinkling. “You smell like cigarettes.”
I froze. Jeez, I forgot she had a nose like a bloodhound. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. What, you really think perfume covers that up? That shit is horrible for you. It’s rotting your lungs, literally killing you.”
I rolled my eyes, hard. “Okay, Mom.”
“Come on,” she pressed, arms crossed, full big-sister disapproval mode activated. “You’re already getting winded just walking around. You really wanna make it worse?”
I grabbed my wine, drained it, and slammed the glass down on the end table. “Claire, (huff) Jesus fuck, relax.”
She sighed like just existing in the same room as me was draining every last ounce of patience she had, like she was this close to throwing her hands up and declaring me a lost cause. “You know I love you, right?”
“Do you? Or (pant) are you just jelly?”
“I am not jealous of you Celeste. Just look at your belly! If your butt wasn’t so huge, people would think you were pregnant.”
I scoffed, waving my fork at her. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous (huff). No one thinks I’m pregnant. I’m just super full right now, it’s fucking Thanksgiving.” I took another bite. “But (chew, chew) let’s be real, (chew) you’ve always been jealous of me. Jealous that I’m younger, that your boyfriends have always been more into me than you. Ever since high school.”
“Oh fuck off.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “I just don’t want to watch you throw your health—and your body—away.”
I stabbed my fork into my plate, scooped up the last of my pie, and shoved it into my mouth like the brat she thought I was.
“Hey (chew, chew), since we’re having this super productive talk (chew), why don’t you go grab me another slice?” I gave her my best pout, sticking out my bottom lip. “I’m too (huff) full to get up.”
Claire shot to her feet, eyes flashing, looking at me like I personally offended her entire life philosophy. “You are so ridiculous.”
Then she stormed off. Probably back to Brandon, where she’d roll her eyes, vent, and pretend she didn’t want dessert.
Afterwards, Rory dropped me off at my condo—yeah, I told him I wasn’t in the mood to hang out, needed some alone time.
Truth was, I just wasn’t always comfortable enough with Rory yet to let him see how much I really ate, at least, not now.
Alone time meant straight to the balcony, cigarette lit before I even sat down. DoorDash open before I took the first drag. Five different restaurants, my usual lineup. Didn’t matter that I was already stuffed. The rush of ordering, knowing it was on the way, the anticipation of indulgence? That was part of it now.
Chapter 44
The weeks rolled by, days getting shorter, nights getting colder, December settling in like it had something to prove.
Fucking Sam thought he’d broken me?
My inbox said otherwise.
Men were obsessed with me.
Men paid for me.
Men covered my bills, my mortgage, my entire too-expensive, high-rise dream without Google, without a corporate leash, and definitely without fucking Sam Walters. I was making it work.
And I was doing it from home, in sexy underwear, sipping wine, getting paid to look hot and eat cake.
And the scale climbed. 275. Then 278.
And I liked it.
Loved it, actually.
But none of that mattered when it came to my family. Especially at my mom’s house on Christmas Eve. Same routine, same forced holiday cheer as last year—only this time? No more Google. And I was a lot bigger, like literally seventy pounds bigger.
So yeah, I brought Rory.
Not that he was as much help as I’d hoped.
I knew he was obsessed with me—painfully obvious. But lately, the neediness had started creeping in, like he thought this was going somewhere. Like we were building something. Worse? He’d started watching me.
Not the fun kind of watching.
The judgy kind.
A flicker of concern when I ordered more wine when he took me out to dinner. That stupid little eyebrow twitch when I reached for extra bread. And the worst—his tight-lipped, barely-holding-it-together expression every time I stepped out for a cigarette. Like he thought I was one drag away from like getting addicted or something.
Let’s get one thing straight—I didn’t even smoke that much. Not really. It wasn’t like I was out here chain-smoking, burning through a pack a day. Moderation. That was the key. A few here and there, mostly to settle my stomach when I ate too much, which, let’s be honest, was practical. A necessary strategy. And anyway, I’d been vaping less, so technically, that counted as a health win.
But did Rory see it that way?
Just like my sister—nope.
Instead, I got the look. The careful, hesitant, I’m saying this because I care comments. The ones dipped in concern but wrapped tight in restraint, like he was trying not to set me off.
Like he was worried. About my health. My weight. My choices.
Whatever.
I wasn’t interested in Rory’s thoughts on my eating, my drinking, or my perfectly reasonable smoking habits. He had one job—make Christmas easier, make me feel less alone. That was it.
But the second I walked into my mom’s house, I knew.
Yeah, her head was gonna explode.
I tried. Picked something looser, something that maybe, maybe would disguise just how lush, abundant, and downright jaw-dropping I’d gotten.
Didn’t work.
Her eyes went wide. Lips pursed so tight they could cut glass.
Gray knit skirt, soft and cozy, stretched to hell over my ass, waistband digging in deep, barely keeping my belly contained. Matching cardigan, buttoned but fighting for its life over tits too big for their own good, every pull of fabric a silent scream, gaps between buttons teasing more than they covered.
And yeah, no shapewear. Didn’t want it, didn’t need it.
Because despite my round, plush belly, my hips still curved like sin, my waist still cinched like a fantasy, an hourglass of bulging, hanging plushness, so extreme it was honestly breathtaking—even to me.
Scott gave me the usual "Hey, kiddo," but his brain lagged, like it needed a full reboot to process just how much more of me there was now.
And Mom?
She blinked.
Once. Twice.
Like she was seeing me for the first time, and it wasn’t computing. Like she’d opened a present, peeled back the wrapping, and found something very, very different than what she expected inside.
Then, with a horrified scowl, she pulled me in. Not a welcome home, sweetheart hug.
No.
This was an assessment. A let’s see just how much bigger you’ve gotten hug.
And yeah, I felt her adjust.
Her arms stretched wider, her grip shifted, fingers sinking in, disappearing into the plush softness of my back, pressing deeper, like she needed to confirm just how much there was now.
Like she wasn’t sure if her eyes were playing tricks on her.
Like she had to physically measure the difference.
I bit back a sigh, wiggled out of my coat, and waddled my way toward the dining room, ass jiggling, thighs rubbing, belly and boobs leading the charge.
Rory trailed behind me, clueless as ever, like charm and his store-bought haircut could smooth out the thick-as-gravy tension.
Dinner started off fine.
If you ignored the side-eyes. The tight smiles, or that my chair was too small. The way Mom’s lips pressed so thin they practically disappeared every time my breasts did a little bounce with each forkful I slid between my plump, glossy lips.
Scott tried for small talk. Brandon just straight-up stared. Claire sipped her sparkling water, brows arched so high they were halfway to the stratosphere.
Rory did what Rory did. Answered everyone's questions about doppler radar and being on TV, filling the silence, flashing that polished, practiced weatherman smile, all while my family pretended to listen but really just watched me shovel lobster mac and cheese onto my plate like I meant it.
Mom lasted longer than expected.
Then I went for seconds.
“Celeste,” she said, voice with just enough arsenic to burn. “Are you sure you don’t want to pace yourself?”
I was pacing myself.
Pacing myself straight through this meal and out the damn door before anyone started in with concerned health advice or, worse, asking what I was doing now that I wasn’t at Google anymore.
So I shoveled in a bite, chewed slow, swallowed, then locked eyes with Mom as I reached for a roll, slathered it in extra butter, dragging the knife slow across the soft, golden crust.
Just to prove a point.
She inhaled sharply through her nose.
And I enjoyed myself.
A little too much.
Because their shock?
Their horrified fascination at how much I could eat?
Yeah, it got to me. Made me self-conscious for half a second. But the other half?
A heat curled deep between my thighs. Humiliating. Hot. Twisted in a way that had me wanting to drag it out, make them watch.
So I did.
Took slow, deliberate bites, lips wrapping around my fork, tongue sweeping over the tines before I swallowed, letting a pleased hum slip free.
And that feeling?
That heady, needy ache?
Made me want more.
So I took more.
Cleared my plate, three times.
Dessert? Demolished. Cherry pie. Christmas cookies. That sinful fudge Claire had sniffed at, muttering “too rich for my taste.”
Yeah, well. Not for mine.
By the time I leaned back, stuffed, belly huge, pressing into my lap, cardigan buttons losing the battle, the room had shifted.
Mom? Stiff.
Claire? Somewhere between disgusted and concerned.
Scott tried—"Like the fudge, huh?"—like that’d distract from the fact that I was too full to move.
Rory? Poor Rory.
Sitting beside me, stunned, like he’d just watched me eat my way into another dimension. Shifting, uneasy, every time I sighed, gasped, fingers drifting to my overstuffed stomach.
Plates cleared. Coffee poured.
But I was on my second glass of cognac eggnog.
Too full. Too tipsy. Too everything.
Belly heavy, stomach tight, thighs sprawled wide, alcohol buzzing warm in my blood, eyelids drooping, Mom cleaning up around me like her disapproval was haunting the damn house.
Rory got the hint.
Helped me up—well, mostly steadied me as I heaved myself upright, a long, breathy moan slipping out as my stomach pressed even heavier, waistband digging in, brutal, unforgiving.
I waddled to the door, Rory trailing, tin of Scott’s fudge in hand because, yeah, I told him to grab it—I was taking that home—but his hand hovered too firm on my back, like I was helpless, delicate, unable to carry my own weight.
Maybe I was.
The drive home was quiet.
Except for me.
Breathing hard. Shifting. Groaning every time my waistband pinched, every time my stomach gurgled, every time I had to spread my thighs wider, trying to make space, desperate for relief.
I pulled out a cigarette from the pack in my purse, tapped it against my palm.
"What are you doing? Not in the car," Rory said, all shocked and serious, like I’d just pulled out a crack pipe.
I blinked, turned my head toward him, eyes half-lidded from too much food, too much wine and eggnog, too much everything. "Are (huff) you serious?"
His hands tightened on the wheel, eyes locked straight ahead. "Yeah."
I stared.
Waited for the just kidding, baby, go ahead, light up. Waited for him to treat me like a queen.
Didn’t happen.
"You serious serious?" My voice was thick, breathy, lips pouting.
"It’s a Cybertruck, Celeste."
Oh…
Oh.
I slumped back, arms crossed under my boobs—big, high, and currently offended—feeling full-on personally victimized.
If I were one of his weatherman buddies—emphasis on man—holding a cigar instead of a cigarette? No problem. Classy. Rugged. Manly.
But me? A woman? God forbid I want a cigarette. Suddenly it’s a health crisis, a mood killer, and a direct attack on his precious chrome spaceship of a truck.
I swear to God, the double standard was off the charts.
And it wasn’t just annoying—it was sexist. Outdated. So unwoke it belonged in a museum.
But worse than all that? If he actually liked me—loved me—worshipped me like men are supposed to? He wouldn’t have said no. He wouldn’t deny me pleasure. Wouldn’t kill the vibe.
But he did.
And just like that?
I was done.
I let out a long, dramatic sigh, shifting my very full, very gassy stomach, pressing a hand to the top of it, exhaling as another wave of fullness hit me hard.
"Fine," I gasped, digging into my purse, putting the cigarette back in the pack and pulling out my vape, taking a long drag, then blowing a thick cloud right in his direction. "I think I wanna be alone tonight."
Rory’s grip on the wheel tightened. "You sure?"
"Yeah, I’m exhausted."
Silence. Tension. His jaw clenched.
"Alright."
He pulled up to my building.
I was still too full. Too heavy. Too out of it to do much but take my time unbuckling, moving slow, feeling every overindulgent bite settle deep.
I grabbed the tin of fudge, hugged it to my belly like it was mine now, like we’d bonded, like we were in this together.
I shot Rory a look as I opened my own damn door—because God forbid he get out and help me.
“Well, (gasp) um… Merry Christmas, (huff) I guess,” I said.
He sighed, like I was exhausting him. Please.
“Yeah, Merry Christmas. Call me tomorrow.”
I stepped out—hips swaying, chest heaving, attitude cranked all the way up.
Shut the door before he could get another word in.
Didn’t look back. Not once.
Had bigger things on my mind—like getting up the elevator, lighting a real cigarette, peeling off these clothes, stretching out with a glass of wine…
And maybe?
Grabbing my toy. Finishing off every last bite of fudge.
And no, I wasn’t calling Rory tomorrow.
He had already served his purpose.
Chapter 45
New Year’s Eve. Rooftop party under the Space Needle, Seattle glowing below, sky black and endless, fireworks waiting. Music vibrating through my bones, champagne bubbles bursting on my tongue, heat from too many bodies packed tight, the buzz of it all electric.
I was dressed to kill.
Black halter crop top, painted on, sheer in places, clinging in others, neckline plunging so deep it was straight-up obscene. Black skirt, slit so high it felt like an invitation—if an invitation could barely contain thick, soft thighs spilling out with every shift, every step. Fabric stretched tight over my ass—so damn tight it should’ve come with a warning label.
No shapewear again. No restraint. No smoothing anything down.
I let it all show.
Hair big, fresh platinum highlights catching the light, makeup sultry—lips a glossy red, eyes dark and stunning.
Maybe a little out of breath. Maybe a little too thick to attempt to join Jenna on the dance floor, but I still owned the damn party. And a lot of eyes were on me. Including Aaron’s.
I tried not to notice the way he glanced my way, the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the way he looked away too fast every time I caught him staring. Tried not to feel the heat creeping up my spine, the thrill coiling low in my ass when our eyes met.
So instead? I flirted with everyone else. The hottest guys there? Obviously. Tossed my hair, laughed, leaned in too close, let my lips linger just a little too long on the rim of my glass. Kept it light, playful, harmless. Kept it far away from Aaron. Jenna didn’t need that kind of drama.
Chase and Jordan were there too—standing close, at least talking to each other. Not talking to me.
But watching? Hell yes.
And despite both of them having skinny little bimbos clinging to their arms, giggling, pressing up against them, squeezing their muscles like they’d never seen biceps before, their eyes? On me.
Dragging over me all night. Lingering. Hungry.
Like they didn’t want to want me.
Like they couldn’t help themselves.
And I felt it.
That heat, that pull, the way their gazes tracked every curve—curves softer now, fuller. My ass, bigger, rounder, sitting different than it used to. And I wondered…
Did they notice?
Was it killing them to keep their distance?
Seeing them again did something to me. Stirred up memories. The way they used to sink their fingers into my thighs. The way they used to feed me, spoil me, worship me.
But now?
Distance.
No teasing smirks. No whispered filth in my ear. No hands sliding over my hips, lingering low, squeezing.
So, I ignored the tension. Ignored the heat twisting through me, the way my body reacted to their stares.
And I kept drinking.
Vodka. Champagne. Shots I didn’t need but took anyway.
At some point? Yeah, I must’ve gone home.
January started hungover. Started lazy. Slow, sluggish, heavy—waking up late, staying in bed even later, wrapped in blankets, barely moving except to grab my phone and order more food. The only real effort I made was shuffling to the door for deliveries, stepping onto the balcony to smoke, maybe soaking in a salt bath until my skin pruned before crawling back to bed.
Pasta. Cheesecake. CSI on an endless loop. Vegas. Miami. New York. The crimes changed, but my routine? Exactly the same.
Even making content for OnlyFans started to feel like work.
A few months ago? That would’ve shocked the hell out of me. Back then, I actually left the house for more than just a hair appointment, a nail fill, or a leg wax. I had plans. I had a life. I did things—normal things.
But by mid-January just lifting my phone felt like a chore.
Especially when it wouldn’t stop ringing.
I groaned, shifting sluggish, belly heavy, full, bloated from wine and Domino’s pizza. Sheets tangled around me, my plastic tray of half-eaten brownies still in one hand, but my phone? Buried somewhere.
It rang again.
I huffed, fumbling blindly, patting down the bed, my fingers finally closing around it. Probably Jenna, fresh from her clean girl workout, off to drink something offensively green and feel superior about it.
Didn’t even check the screen. Just answered.
“Yeah, what?”
"Celeste Amelia Somerset!"
I yanked the phone away from my ear like it had burned me, stomach twisting as I blinked at the screen.
Shit.
“Mom?” I croaked, suddenly wide awake.
“I just need you to tell me exactly what I’m looking at. There is a video of you, Celeste, on the internet! What the hell is this? Cel Monroe?”
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
