Growing up chubbier than most girls your age wasn’t just hard — it was quietly brutal. It lingered like a shadow behind every mirror, every dressing room light that exposed every inch of you you wished would disappear. It whispered constantly in the back of your mind: You’re not enough. Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not wanted enough.

You were always the funny one. The dependable one. The friend. Never the one who got chosen.

College wasn’t a glow-up montage either. It was late-night breakdowns, skipped meals and tear-stained pillowcases. And when you graduated and got a job? The rejections didn’t stop. They just changed their language. “Not the right fit.” “We’re going in another direction.” “We loved your interview, but…” And it always came down to the same unspoken truth: you weren’t the image they wanted to project.

So when the acceptance letter from Raymond Enterprises arrived, you stared at it like it was a mistake.

And suddenly, you were the assistant to Matthew Raymond — heir to the Raymond Empire. The man who controlled billion-dollar airlines and tech ventures with the ease of breathing. People talked about him like he was a myth. Cold. Brilliant. Untouchable. And oddly enough, even while working for him, you rarely saw him.

There were no polite greetings. No small talk. No fake smiles. Your entire interaction history consisted of things like: “Cancel that meeting.” Or, “Get those files on my desk before five.” A few sharp words. Nothing more.

So when, months into the job, he unexpectedly called you into his office, it was a hit to the heart.

The double doors opened to a scene you didn’t expect. His usual stark, pristine desk was no longer bare.

There — laid out neatly — was food. Not just any food. Your food. Flaky, golden croissants from the corner café. Your go-to sandwich with the slightly burnt edges that you secretly loved. And a smoothie — not just any smoothie — the exact one you always ordered with oat milk and extra berries.

Your mouth parted, confusion flickering across your face as you looked at him. Matthew didn’t look up. He sat at his desk, typing away, his expression unreadable. Then, calmly, like he was commenting on the weather, he said:

“Eat.”

Just that. One word. No explanation. No eye contact.