Chapter 3

The gym's anniversary party is on Saturday. Cole tells me to come early.

"Wear the black dress. It'll make you look slimmer."

"Do I have to go?"

"Of course. You're my longest-standing client."

"Just a client?"

He walks over and pinches my waist.

"Here we go again. Hit one twenty-five, and you get everything. Right?"

That line used to sound sweet.

Now it makes my stomach turn.

The party is packed with members, sponsors, and Cole's friends.

I barely make it through the door before someone calls out,

"Well, if it isn't the future Mrs. Reeves!"

Cole doesn't even change his expression.

"Don't call her that."

The guy blinks.

"Wait, seriously? You two still aren't official?"

Cole smiles. "Not quite there yet."

Someone else laughs. "Not quite where?"

Maddie happens to walk by. Her eyes sweep over me from head to toe.

"A little over three pounds to go."

Cole grins. "One twenty-five, then she gets the girlfriend status."

A few people laugh.

"Cole, are you looking for a wife or shopping for one?"

"Damn. She has to hit a target weight just to earn the girlfriend title? What is this, a tryout?"

Cole answers like he's explaining something completely reasonable.

"She agreed to it. If you set a goal, you have to hold yourself accountable."

I stand there in the middle of the crowd, feeling less like a person and more like a progress chart everyone gets to judge.

Then some drunk guy pipes up.

"Hey, wasn't your last one doing the same thing?"

Cole's smile disappears for half a second.

"Jo something. The one who used to come to all those dinners with us. I remember she got stuck around a hundred and twenty, too. Then she ran off crying."

My heart skips.

Maddie jumps in immediately, steering the conversation somewhere else.

But I heard it.

Jo.

Later that night, the staff starts showing off some of the gym’s success stories.

Without warning, the big screen lights up with a photo of me from two years ago.

One-fifty.

Baggy T-shirt.

Shoulders hunched like I was trying to make myself disappear.

The next photo is me now, somewhere in the high one-twenties.

It was taken after my miscarriage.

I'm pale. Hollow-eyed. Worn down to nothing.

People gasp.

Then a line of text across the screen.

Case Study: Gigi Lane’s Transformation

She lost the weight. Now she just needs to lose the excuses.

My blood runs cold. I storm backstage.

"Who put my photos up there?"

A staffer winces. "Maddie gave them to us."

Maddie walks in right on cue.

"You signed a photo release. It's standard for client success stories."

I grit my teeth. "I never agreed to you using my weight after my miscarriage."

"It doesn't say miscarriage." She folds her arms. "Gigi, don't be so sensitive. People are just going to think you lost weight and finally got in shape."

I stare at her.

"Why do you get so much pleasure out of kicking me when I'm down?"

She's quiet for a second.

Then she smiles.

"I just hate watching you take up all of Cole's time when you're not even trying hard enough. Do you know how many women would kill to be with him?"

So that's what this is.

I don't argue. I turn and walk straight to Cole's office.

His computer is still open. I know the password.

I'm looking for the photo release when I notice a folder on his desktop.

Tier A Clients.

I click it open.

It's a list of women's names.

Mine is at the top.

Gigi Lane.

Below it:

Jo Reyes. Daphne Tran. Hannah Park.

And Maddie's full name.

Madison Hayes.

Beside each name is a churn reason.

Jo Reyes: Emotional breakdown. Refused to continue plan.

Daphne Tran: Entered stable relationship. Spending dropped.

Hannah Park: Lost trust in coach. Do not recommend win-back.

Then I open my own file.

Two years of weigh-ins, payments, and renewal dates.

And notes.

High emotional dependency.

Competition works.

Marriage promises drive high conversion.

I keep scrolling.

At the bottom, there's one last line.

Still convertible.

My fingers go cold.

I stare at them. My chest feels hollow.

I think about every bouquet of flowers. Every hug after every fight. Every time I said I was done, only to let him pull me back in.

I thought the fact that I could never walk away meant I loved him that much.

Finally, I send a copy to my phone.

Just as I close the window, I hear footsteps behind me.

The door swings open. Cole.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Just wanted to rest for a bit." I answer quietly from my chair.

He doesn't suspect a thing.

His gaze drops to my heels, and a second later, he's kneeling to rub my ankle.

"You should've told me. I would've called you a car."

He's so gentle that, for a second, he feels like a completely different person.

But now all I can think is: Is this in the file, too?

The head pats.

The hugs.

The compliments.

The cold shoulder.

The reassurance.

Does every woman get the same routine?

Before I leave, I hear his friends laughing in the hallway.

It's the drunk guy again.

"Cole, how long do you think you'll last this time? Didn't the last three all quit when they were just a few pounds from the finish line?"

Cole's voice turns cold.

"They couldn't stick with it. That's on them."

And just like that, I understand.

I'm not even special for being the one who's almost there.