Big Girl Panties (Kings of the Ring #1)

Prologue

Anniversary Surprise

"I'm not attracted to you," Chris blurted out, then immediately winced. His shoulders sank with a heavy sigh, as if he'd been carrying this secret around like an overpacked suitcase.

Time seemed to stop. The air grew thick, not romantic thick, but more like someone had forgotten to turn on the fan thick. Each heartbeat pounded in my ears while my brain struggled to process what I'd just heard.

"What?" My voice emerged as barely a whisper.

My hand flew to my chest, partly for dramatic effect and partly because I genuinely thought I might be having a heart attack.

I searched his face for any sign this was an elaborate anniversary prank.

Maybe he'd hired actors. Maybe there were hidden cameras.

Maybe I was on some twisted reality show called Destroy Your Wife's Self-Esteem for Cash.

His dark eyes remained flat, unblinking, like a dead fish at the grocery store.

Oh my God. He was serious.

The bedroom light flickered once, even our electrical system was having a moment. Our wedding photo on the nightstand caught the light, and I swore those frozen smiles were now mocking me.

"Please don't make me say it again." The corners of his mouth pulled downward in what I could only describe as his constipated confession face. "I don't want to hurt you, but I can't keep lying."

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like I was wearing a spotlight instead of the lacy lingerie I'd splurged on for our one-year wedding anniversary.

"I don't understand." I gestured down at my body, the nightgown feeling like a costume rather than something seductive. "I look the same as the day we got married, maybe a few pounds different, but I'm still the same curvy girl you supposedly fell for. What changed?"

"Nothing." Chris avoided my eyes, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on the comforter. He shrugged, one shoulder barely lifting. "I've never really been physically attracted to you."

Heat crept up my neck.

"Then why did you marry me?" My words bounced off the cream-colored walls we'd painted together last spring, back when I thought we were building a life instead of an elaborate charade.

Chris shifted his weight, his gaze drifting to the window. For a moment, I thought he might spare me whatever terrible truth he was holding.

"Because your dad promised me partner if I sealed the deal."

I waited for more, an explanation, a softening, anything to dull the edge of what he'd said. But he just stood there, hands in his pockets, like he was explaining his preference for wheat bread over white.

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in. The hum of the air conditioner grew louder, an intrusive witness to my humiliation. Echoes of cruel laughter and whispered insults from my past crashed over me, a past I thought I was over.

I took one step backward, then another, until the edge of the bed caught the backs of my knees.

My lungs emptied as I sank onto it. "My own dad?" The question came out hollow. Images flashed through my mind: my father's approving smile at our engagement party, the champagne toast at our wedding, and the private conversations I wasn't privy to.

I shouldn't be surprised. This was the same man who'd given me a gym membership for my sixteenth birthday and had asked, "When are you going to use it?" every Christmas since. How many times had he told me, "If you want to find a husband, you're going to have to lose weight"?

And now this.

Chris watched me with an expression that somehow managed to combine guilt, pity, and the look someone gets when they realize they've stepped in something unpleasant.

"And you are a good woman," he added, as if I were a golden retriever who'd learned to fold laundry.

"You take care of me and our home. I knew someday you'd make a great mom. "

A sound escaped my lips that was somewhere between a laugh and the noise a balloon makes when you let the air out slowly.

"A great mom?" I gestured vaguely between us.

"Chris, we haven't had sex since…" I honestly couldn't remember.

He'd barely touched me since we'd gotten married.

"How exactly was I supposed to get pregnant? "

He had the audacity to look confused, as if our non-existent sex life was some kind of mystery instead of the elephant in the room.

"I think we got married too soon." He completely sidestepped my question. "Too young."

"What are you trying to say, Chris?"

"I think we need… Space to explore other options." He glanced at his phone, because of course he did, then back at me. "You know, while we both focus on self-improvement." His eyes flickered to my body for a fraction of a second, like he was assessing a house he might renovate.

"Self-improvement," I repeated, testing the words like they might explode.

"Yeah." He nodded enthusiastically. "I've been hitting the gym five days a week. Maybe you should try it sometime."

I blinked slowly. "You think I should go to the gym?"

"I think we should explore an open marriage for a couple of years."

"Open marriage." I drew out each syllable, as if I were learning a foreign language. "A couple of years."

"I know it probably doesn't appeal to you the same way it does me," he continued, apparently on a roll now. "I'm in my prime, and you're…" He caught sight of my expression, which probably looked like a deer in headlights. "I mean, it's going to be harder for you to find someone…"

"What the actual fuck, Chris?"

"This isn't coming out right." He held up his hands.

But it was coming out right, wasn't it? He was the catch, and I was the consolation prize. He was the main character, and I was the quirky best friend who existed solely to make him look better by comparison.

Chris had that effortless appeal that drew people in, tall and lean, with perfectly styled dark hair and eyes to match. I'd always felt like we were on equal footing, that I had as much of a chance with him as anyone else. How naive I'd been.

As I sat there in my anniversary lingerie, which now felt less like a romantic surprise and more like a costume malfunction, six years of memories began rearranging themselves like a jigsaw puzzle, revealing a completely different picture.

Chris and I had met in the café where I worked. He'd come in every morning for a specialty coffee and a bagel, and I'd thought his persistence was charming. Now I wondered if he'd just been really, really committed to his long-term career strategy.

"I want a divorce." The words surprised me by how steady they sounded, like they'd been waiting backstage for their cue.

He laughed, actually laughed, like I'd suggested we get matching face tattoos. "Don't be silly, Brooke." He flopped onto our bed. "I don't want a divorce. I want an open marriage, and maybe you can work on yourself during that time."

"Work on myself?"

His mouth lifted in what I could only describe as his mansplaining smile. "I know you hate gyms and working out, but you're going to have to put on your big girl panties and get it done." He paused, looking pleased with himself. "No pun intended."

The audacity. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of this man.

"And if I say no? If I do not agree to you dating other people?"

"Come on, Brooke," he sighed, like I was being unreasonable about something simple, like refusing to let him rearrange the furniture. "We both know it's your only option."

What the actual fuck?

"No, it's not, Chris. I want a divorce."

"Trust me, Brooke, you don't want a divorce. You have no idea how hard the dating world will be as a plus-size woman."

The casual cruelty of his words hung in the air like a bad smell that refused to dissipate.

But instead of crumbling, something strange happened.

A calm settled over me, not the calm of defeat, but the calm of someone who'd realized they'd been playing a rigged game and could finally stop pretending to enjoy it.

"I don't care." And I really, truly didn't. I would rather be alone with a Netflix subscription and a decent vibrator than spend another minute with someone who saw me as a consolation prize.

"I'm going out tonight, and you should go out too. I'm sure you'll change your mind once you see how hard it is out there."

I turned to look at him, really look at him, and felt nothing. Not anger, not hurt, just… nothing. Like looking at a piece of furniture I'd grown tired of.

"Go fuck yourself, Chris."

I walked to the closet with the pace of someone who'd finally figured out the punchline to a very long, very unfunny joke. The soft click of the door opening. The whisper of fabric as I pulled down my suitcase, the good one I'd been saving for our dream honeymoon that was never going to happen.

Behind me, Chris shifted his weight, and I could practically feel his confusion radiating like heat from a broken radiator. He'd expected tears, begging, maybe some desperate promises to hit the gym. He hadn't expected this.

"I would rather be alone than be with someone who thinks so little of me."

And as I said it, I realized it was the truest thing I'd spoken in years. Maybe ever.

"I know you think that, but…" He trailed off, probably realizing that his usual manipulation tactics were about as effective as using a chocolate teapot. "We should both go out tonight separately with our friends. I'm sure you'll see things my way tomorrow."

He pushed off the bed, pulled off his wedding ring with the ceremony of someone removing a Band-Aid, and dropped it on the nightstand. The small clink sounded like the period at the end of a very long, very boring sentence.

"It was never my intention to hurt you, Brooke, but the truth was weighing on me. Now that it's out there, it will be better because you'll be able to work on yourself, and I'll be able to get what I need."

I walked over to the nightstand, looking down at his ring like it was evidence at a crime scene. "You have a good time tonight." I forced a smile as I slid off my wedding ring and dropped it beside his with a satisfying clink. "We'll talk again tomorrow."

But as I said it, I was already mentally calculating how long it would take to pack, how much a security deposit would be, and whether my best friend Davina still had that air mattress.

Tomorrow, I would tell him again that I wanted a divorce and that I'd be moving out faster than he could say open marriage.

But tonight? Tonight, I was going out to celebrate. Not to mourn the death of my marriage, but to celebrate the birth of whatever came next.

After all, I had a feeling my story was just getting started.