The Fat Girl's Emmy-Winning Revenge

Rain lashed against the glass facade of the Beverly Hills Four Seasons like icy whips.

I clutched the still-warm Nielsen report against my chest, my cheap raincoat doing nothing to stop the water from seeping into my black suit.

The soaked fabric clung to my two-hundred-pound frame, each step heavy and awkward, a constant reminder of the gap between me and those glamorous women.

Tonight was Universal Media's celebration party for California Sound. Fletcher's show had just received an Emmy nomination.

As his secret girlfriend and ghostwriter for three years, I should have been by his side—if he hadn't insisted on keeping us hidden.

"With a body like yours standing next to me, you'd be a complete joke." His words from three months ago still echoed in my head, sharp and cruel. "Lainey, you know how shallow this industry is. We'll find the right time, okay?"

But what about all those sweet words? "Your talent fascinates me, looks are just surface." "Once my career is stable, I'll marry you openly." "In my heart, you're more beautiful than any supermodel."

All lies. I'd loved him from the shadows for three years, writing his scripts, cleaning up his messes, even using my own savings to cover his gambling debts.

And now, I was still running errands for him in the pouring rain.

As I reached for the VIP lounge door, voices from inside froze my blood.

"Seriously, Fletcher, don't you have nightmares having to do that with such a fat pig every night?" The sickeningly sweet yet vicious voice belonged to Susan Hopper, the new weather girl, famous for her angelic face and devilish heart.

Fletcher's laugh was like an ice pick straight to my heart. "Baby, in the dark all women feel the same. Besides..."

He lowered his voice, but it still carried clearly, dripping with disgust, "a desperate fat pig like her is just grateful for any attention. She's written countless scripts for me these past three years, never asked for a dime."

"So you're just using her?" Susan's laugh tinkled with malicious delight. "Brilliant, darling."

"It's called resource optimization." His tone was so casual, so utterly cold. "Her talent, my face—the perfect combination. But you..."

I heard the wet sound of kissing, Susan's soft, seductive moans.

"You're the woman who should be on my arm, Susan. Once California Sound wins that Emmy, I'll dump her. We'll go public. She's just..." He paused, his voice full of contempt, "practice. Every time I see that blob of fat, I want to puke, but what can I do? She's so damn useful."

Practice.

The word echoed in my chest, sucking all the air out of me.

Three years flashed before my eyes—late nights writing, smoothing over his crises with executives, using my own savings to bail him out of financial trouble, loving him with what I thought was visible devotion...

To him, I was just a resource. A practice run. Trash to be used and discarded.

A fury I'd never experienced before ignited in my veins. I shoved the heavy door open.

Warm, dry air and the scent of expensive champagne washed over me.

Fletcher had Susan pinned against the luxurious couch, his hand already up her skirt, while she responded eagerly to his touch, her legs wrapped around his waist.

The room was full of their friends. Their laughter died as they saw me.

"Fletcher." My voice was hoarse, trembling with my own storm. "The report you wanted."

They sprang apart quickly. Annoyance flashed in Fletcher's eyes before he quickly put on that familiar, fake, charming smile. He strode over, lowering his voice with warning in his eyes.

"It's pouring outside. What are you doing here?" He reached for the folder. I gripped it tight, my knuckles white. "I told you to send an intern."

"I heard everything." I whispered, the words cutting my throat like glass.

His face tightened, then quickly smoothed over. "Lainey, you're soaked through. You must be feverish, talking nonsense." He tried to pry the folder from my hands, maintaining a strained smile for the audience behind him.

Susan sashayed over, adjusting her dress, her gaze raking over my drenched, overweight body with mock pity. "Oh, honey. You look like a drowned rat." She raised her voice, performing for the crowd, "Maybe you should cut out regular Coke and stick to Diet? I hear it helps with weight loss."

A wave of suppressed, cruel laughter rippled through the lounge. I felt dozens of eyes piercing me like needles, judging every imperfect inch.

Fletcher finally snatched the report and hissed, "Don't make a scene, Lainey. Go home. We'll talk later." His eyes said something else: Know your place.

"We're done talking." My voice shook but found a new, cold clarity. "Three years, Fletcher. I wrote your scripts. I cleaned up your messes. I even paid your debts..." I looked past him at those sneering, beautiful faces, "...and you call me a 'desperate fat pig'? Your practice run?"

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Fletcher went pale. Susan shrieked, "You're insane! Fletcher doesn't need your money! He's a top producer!"

"Is he?" I locked eyes with Fletcher's panicked gaze, my heart pounding like a drum of pure rage. "Should I tell everyone who got down on his knees three months ago, begging me for a fifty-thousand-dollar loan to cover his gambling debts? The IOU you signed is still on my phone."

Dead silence.

Then the room exploded. Whispers surged like a tide, everyone's eyes darting between Fletcher and me.

Some pulled out their phones, others covered their mouths, while more showed the excited gleam of watching a spectacle unfold.

Fletcher's face went from pale to ashen, he stepped forward, his voice low but threatening: "Are you out of your mind? Shut up!"

"Fifty thousand dollars?" someone in the crowd repeated in disbelief.

"My God, does he really gamble?"

Susan panicked too, shrilly defending Fletcher: "That's nonsense! This crazy woman is spreading lies—"

A cool, calm voice cut through all the chaos from the back of the VIP area, instantly silencing the commotion: "It seems I've missed the main event."

The crowd immediately parted. Howard Buckner emerged from the shadows—CEO of Universal Media, the true heir to the empire. Dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, he radiated undeniable authority with every step, his presence instantly quieting the entire room.

"Howard!" Fletcher forced composure, sweat beading on his temples. "It's nothing serious. Just a disgruntled employee having a breakdown..."

"A breakdown?" Howard raised an eyebrow. His sharp, intelligent gaze landed on me, seeing through the rain, shame, and fury. "She seems quite lucid to me. Miss Martinez? Did you just say Mr. Kane owes you fifty thousand dollars?"

I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. "Yes. I have transfer records and a signed IOU."

Howard's gaze shifted to Fletcher, cold as a blade. "Using company bonuses to gamble? Borrowing from subordinates? Fascinating corporate ethics."

Susan tried to interject, her voice shrill: "Mr. Buckner, this is all a misunderstanding... Lainey's just bitter because Fletcher rejected her—"

"Miss Hopper," Howard didn't even glance her way, his voice a quiet command, "your department is hosting downstairs. I believe you're in the wrong place."

Susan's face flushed crimson. She fled amid the crowd's snickers.

Fletcher shot me a look of pure venom, his voice low and desperate with threat: "You'll regret this, Lainey. You'll never work in this town again."

"No. You will." I met his glare, three years of hurt and fury finally breaking free, my voice clear and cutting in the hushed room. "You will pay for every word you said today."

I turned and walked out, head held high, ignoring the uproar behind me. The rain continued, but my mind had never been clearer, colder.

At the hotel entrance, a black Rolls-Royce glided to a stop beside me. The rear window lowered, revealing Howard Buckner's sharp, unreadable profile.

"Get in, Miss Martinez." His tone brooked no argument, yet felt like a lifeline. "I believe we need to discuss your... future."