Crown of Curves and Cash

The divorce decree felt lighter than a feather, yet it carried the crushing mass of three years of emotional starvation. Clara Vance sat in the corner booth of The Gilded Spoon, a dim, upscale Italian bistro downtown, looking down at her reflection in a glass of chilled pinot grigio.

At thirty-two, Clara had spent her entire marriage to corporate attorney Marcus Vance shrinking herself. Literally and figuratively. Marcus had conditioned her to believe that her lush, voluptuous, size-20 frame was a personal failure, an embarrassment to his high-society law firm associates. He had starved her of food, affection, and basic human respect, trading her in for a stick-thin debutante named Chloe the moment his partnership was secured.

Today, Clara was officially a free woman. And she had celebrated by ordering a plate of rich truffle carbonara, a basket of garlic focaccia, and a decadent molten chocolate lava cake.

"You're going to make yourself sick, Clara," a familiar, shrill voice pierced the air.

Clara didn't even need to look up. She recognized the toxic cadence of her ex-mother-in-law, Beatrice Vance, who was marching toward her table draped in emerald silk and dripping with fake condescension. Beside her stood Marcus, looking smug in his custom charcoal suit, his arm linked tightly with Chloe.

"Eating your feelings again, I see," Marcus sneered, looking down at Clara’s plate with visible disgust. "Honestly, Clara, is it any wonder I left you? Look at you. You take up half this booth. No wonder you let yourself go."

Clara swallowed a bite of carbonara, wiped her lips with a linen napkin, and slowly raised her head. The old Clara would have shrunk back, tears stinging her eyes.

The new Clara looked Marcus dead in the eye, a slow, radiant smile spreading across her face.

"Marcus, darling," Clara said, her voice dripping with smooth, honeyed amusement. "I'm not eating my feelings. I'm celebrating the fact that I no longer have to sleep next to a man whose entire personality is smaller than his bank account."

Marcus’s face flushed a violent crimson. "You ungrateful—after everything I gave you!"

"You gave me a headache and a shopping bag of emotional trauma," Clara interrupted coolly, taking a slow sip of her wine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my date is arriving, and unlike you, he actually knows how to appreciate a woman with substance."