Chapter 1

The Orlando sun hit Hannah like a physical weight the moment she stepped out of her cracked windshield Honda Civic. She'd been in Florida for exactly three days, and she already understood why people called it the Sunshine State with a tone that suggested they meant it as a warning.

At five-foot-five and one hundred thirty pounds, Hannah cut a figure that turned heads. She knew it, too, not in an arrogant way, but in the practical, calculating manner of someone who'd learned to use every asset available to her. Her blonde hair fell in natural waves past her shoulders, framing a face that was objectively stunning: high cheekbones, full lips, bright green eyes that caught the light just right. She'd been told she could model a hundred times. Modeling didn't pay tuition at the University of Central Florida.

She locked her car, out of habit more than necessity, given the neighborhood, and smoothed down her black cotton shorts. The uniform at Palmer's Steakhouse was... revealing, to put it mildly. The tight white polo clung to her curves, and the shorts were the kind that borderline violated dress codes but management insisted "built team unity." Hannah suspected it built something else entirely, mostly the owner's bank account, given the predominantly male customer base.

She felt the fabric strain slightly across her chest as she moved. Her breasts were a solid C cup, proportionate to her frame, but combined with her narrow waist, they made finding properly fitting uniforms a challenge. The real challenge, though, was below the waist. Hannah carried her weight in the way that some women would kill for and others would pay to lose, all in her hips, thighs, and ass. At 130 pounds, she wasn't heavy by any means, but she was dense in the lower half. The black cotton shorts struggled to contain her, the fabric pulling tight across her backside with every step.

At least the tips are good, she reminded herself, pushing through the employee entrance.

The inside of Palmer's was aggressively themed in a way that tried to feel upscale but landed somewhere around "chain restaurant with delusions of grandeur." Dark wood paneling, fake Tiffany lamps over each booth, a massive bar along one wall that did brisk business during happy hour. The smell hit her immediately, grilled meat, butter, onions, the distinct sweetness of the house steak sauce that Hannah had learned was basically high-fructose corn syrup with a marketing budget.

"New girl! My favorite sight on a Thursday afternoon."

Hannah turned to see Marcus, the head bartender, giving her an appraising look. He was maybe thirty, attractive in a generic way, with the kind of smile that suggested he knew exactly how good-looking he was and considered it a personality trait.

"It's Hannah," she said, moving past him toward the time clock. "And I've been here three days."

"Three days is new. Three weeks is still new. Three months is when I'll consider learning your name." He winked. She ignored him.

The time clock showed she was twelve minutes early for her shift. That was intentional. Hannah needed the extra time to mentally prepare herself for the grind. She'd worked food service back in Georgia, she was a transplant from a small town outside Atlanta, where "small town" was generous and "outside Atlanta" was optimistic, but Palmer's was different. The portions were obscene, the clientele was predominantly tourists and businessmen with expense accounts, and the culture encouraged servers to push food in a way that bordered on aggressive.

Her training had consisted of two days shadowing a server named Destiny, a woman in her late thirties who had the kind of body that suggested she'd been eating the restaurant's food for years. Destiny was thick, soft in a way that strained her uniform, but she moved with a confidence that Hannah envied. She also made bank in tips, which was why she'd been there for eleven years.

"Honey, the secret is simple," Destiny had told her on day one, leading her through the labyrinthine back-of-house. "You push the appetizers, you push the desserts, you push the drinks. Every extra thing on that ticket is extra money in your pocket. And you never turn down a customer who wants to buy you a drink or share a dessert. That's where the real money is."

"But we can't drink on shift," Hannah had replied, confused.

Destiny had laughed, a warm sound that jiggled her ample chest. "We have 'mocktails' for the servers. Looks like alcohol, tastes like sugar, and the customer feels like he's getting special treatment. You take that drink, you smile, you laugh at his jokes, and you watch your tip percentage climb."

It had felt predatory in a way that made Hannah uncomfortable, but she'd nodded along. She needed this job. She needed the money. Her savings account was a joke, her student loans were already accumulating interest, and her parents back in Georgia were in no position to help. Her father had been laid off from the paper mill two years ago, and her mother's job as a hospital billing clerk barely covered their mortgage.

Hannah was on her own.

The shift started at 4:00 PM, which meant the dinner rush hit around 5:30. In the hour and a half before chaos descended, Hannah tried to familiarize herself with the menu. She'd memorized most of it already, but Palmer's had an absurd number of options-twelve different steak cuts, each available with six different preparation styles, plus sides, appetizers, and desserts that could be mixed and matched in combinations that would make a nutritionist weep.

The calorie counts weren't listed on the menu. Hannah had looked them up online on her second day and immediately wished she hadn't. The smallest steak, a six-ounce filet mignon, was 450 calories before adding any butter, sauce, or sides. The house specialty-the Palmer's Challenge Porterhouse, 32 ounces of beef, clocked in at over 2,400 calories. Before the included loaded baked potato (670 calories) and the "bottomless" bread basket that most tables went through three or four rounds of.

"You're going to burn a hole in that menu with your eyes."

Hannah looked up to see Diane, the shift manager, standing over her. Diane was fifty-something, gray-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun, with the kind of no-nonsense demeanor that suggested she'd seen everything the restaurant industry could throw at a person and had long since stopped being impressed by any of it.

"Just trying to make sure I know the specials," Hannah said.

"Good. You're doing better than most of them." Diane glanced around the empty section. "You get cut early, you're going home with maybe sixty bucks in tips. You stay until close, you're looking at two hundred minimum. Your choice."

Hannah thought about her bank account, $847.32, enough for rent and maybe groceries if she stuck to ramen and peanut butter, and nodded. "I'll stay until close."

"Smart girl." Diane paused, looking at her with something that might have been approval. "Word of advice: eat before your shift. The food here will catch up with you if you're not careful. I've seen a lot of pretty young things come through here and leave looking very different six months later."

Hannah nodded, filing the warning away. She'd never had weight issues-her frame seemed to naturally settle around 130 pounds regardless of what she ate-but she appreciated the heads-up all the same.

By 7:00 PM, the restaurant was slammed. Hannah was juggling five tables, her feet already aching in the non-slip shoes she'd spent her last paycheck on. The rhythm of serving was something she'd always found oddly meditative-take orders, enter them in the POS system, deliver drinks, check on tables, clear plates, repeat. It was exhausting, but it required just enough focus to keep her mind off her mounting financial worries.

Her section was near the bar, which meant she got a mix of families and solo diners who wanted to watch the game on the mounted TVs. Table 14 was a family of four-mom, dad, two kids under ten-who'd already ordered two appetizers, four entrees, and a round of sodas that Hannah would be refilling constantly for the next hour.

Table 17 was a businessman in his forties, tie loosened, scrolling through his phone with one hand while nursing a whiskey. He'd ordered the prime rib without looking at the menu, which Hannah had learned usually meant he was a regular at some other Palmer's location.

Table 21 was where things got interesting.

The party of six had come in around 6:30, clearly celebrating something. They were loud, ordering rounds of drinks before they'd even sat down, and the ringleader appeared to be a heavyset man in his fifties who kept insisting that "money was no object tonight." Hannah had already delivered two rounds of appetizers to the table, and they were just getting started on their entrees.

"You're doing great, sweetheart," the heavyset man-she'd learned his name was Richard-said as she set down his third refill of sweet tea. "What do you think of the steak here?"

"It's delicious," Hannah replied automatically. "We're known for our prime cuts."

"That's not what I asked." Richard smiled at her, a friendly expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I asked what you think. Have you tried it?"

Hannah hesitated. The truth was, she hadn't. She'd been eating instant oatmeal and peanut butter toast in her apartment, trying to stretch her grocery budget until her next paycheck. The idea of spending $40 on a steak for herself seemed absurd.

"I haven't had a chance yet," she admitted. "Still pretty new."

Richard's smile widened. "Well, that won't do. That won't do at all." He turned to his companions. "What do you think, folks? Should we make sure our server gets a proper introduction to Palmer's finest?"

There was a chorus of agreement from the table. Before Hannah could protest, Richard was waving down Diane and making arrangements. Twenty minutes later, a full prime rib dinner-medium rare, with loaded mashed potatoes and creamed spinach-was sitting in front of her in the break room.

"On the house," Diane told her, looking amused. "Richard's a regular. Comes in once a month, drops about a grand between food, drinks, and tips. If he wants to buy the new girl dinner, he buys the new girl dinner."

Hannah stared at the plate. It was enormous-probably a pound of beef, glistening with juices and butter, the potatoes practically swimming in cheese and bacon. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since the half a granola bar she'd grabbed on her way out the door that morning.

She took her first bite.

The flavor was incredible. Rich, savory, with a depth that came from proper aging and preparation. The butter melted on her tongue, the seasoning was perfect, and the meat was so tender she could have cut it with a fork. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the experience.

By the end of her shift, she'd finished the entire plate.

Hannah got home at 11:30 PM, her feet throbbing, her back aching, and her stomach fuller than it had been in months. She counted her tips-$214.67, which was better than she'd expected-and allowed herself a small smile. At this rate, she might actually be able to afford her textbooks next semester.

She changed out of her uniform, catching a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror she'd propped against her closet door. Her reflection stared back at her: tired eyes, hair that had gone slightly frizzy from the humidity, a small stain on her tank top where she'd dripped some au jus from her impromptu dinner. Her body looked the same as always-curvy but fit, her thighs touching slightly at the top, her stomach flat but soft when she wasn't sucking it in.

She thought about the amount of food she'd eaten tonight. The prime rib alone had to be over a thousand calories, not counting the potatoes or the spinach. She'd also had three pieces of the complimentary bread throughout her shift, plus several glasses of sweet tea.

Tomorrow I'll eat lighter, she told herself, turning away from the mirror. I'll bring my own food, stick to water, and not let customers talk me into eating their leftovers.

She fell asleep thinking about the money she'd made, the smell of grilled meat still lingering in her hair, and the strange satisfaction of a full belly that she hadn't felt in a long time.

She had no way of knowing that this was just the beginning.