The Feed (part One)

Chapter 1

I never thought I’d end up like this. I never imagined my life could change so much, that my body could change so much. I used to think that being fat was like something akin to having a disease, that it meant taking up space, standing out in a crowd. I didn’t understand what it really meant. Not like I do now.

I never dreamed I could grow so heavy that I couldn’t stand or move without someone to help me. Needing someone to bring me every meal, every bite, to help me bathe, to dress, to do everything I used to take for granted was not something I could ever have envisioned for myself. I didn’t realize how it would feel to be trapped in a body that’s always hungry—always starving, no matter how much I ate.

The worst part is that no matter how full I get, it is never enough. That emptiness is always there, gnawing at me, demanding more.
I wish I could say I didn’t choose this life. There is a part of me that knows I let this happen to me. Perhaps I didn’t choose everything, but I chose enough of it to make me realize that, deep down, it really was something that I wanted right from the start.
If only I had understood what it would mean, or just how much I’d be giving up by making the choices that I made. I thought I was finding freedom, I thought I was opening myself up to indulgence. It turned out to be something else entirely.

I’ve been saved from the life I was leading, but that hunger doesn’t just go away. It remains with me, always. It is as much a part of me now as the weight, as the size of my body, as the way I’ve come to need someone to keep me going every single day. I don’t know if freedom from it is something I’ll ever truly find.
Perhaps I don’t need to be free of it. This may simply be who I am now. This may be the life I was meant to have.

There was a time in my life when I felt that I was untouchable. Born into privilege, raised in luxury, I had every advantage a person could want. My name was in the society pages, my face at every gala. I was the kind of woman people noticed. Men wanted me; women envied me. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
When the scandal hit, everything changed. My name became a punchline, my face plastered under headlines screaming lies. They called me a home-wrecker, a whore, the kind of woman who destroys families and leaves nothing but chaos in her wake. I knew the truth, of course. I knew what really happened. None of that mattered. In the court of public opinion, I was guilty before I even had a chance to defend myself.

I thought I could weather it, that I could ride out the storm. I was wrong. The invitations stopped coming. The people who used to flatter me, suddenly couldn’t meet my gaze. The worst part wasn’t losing my status or my reputation; it was losing my place in the world. Without the parties, without the attention, without the name Lena Castell carrying weight, I felt I had nothing.

When the letter came from Madame Veray, I saw it as a lifeline. It promised escape, comfort, and a chance to start over. All I had to do was accept the offer, come to a secluded mansion in some remote part of Upstate New York, and leave the rest of the world behind. I didn’t think twice. I didn’t stop to question why someone would offer me a life of ease when the rest of the world had turned its back on me.

Maybe I should have, but I didn’t.

I’ve learned a lot since then.

The mansion was even grander than I’d imagined. From the moment I stepped out of the car, I felt dwarfed by its size, its scale—its very presence. The massive iron gates had creaked open just moments before, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks. Their shadows stretched across the gravel like fingers, as though something was trying to hold me back. I ignored the unease settling in my chest. After everything I’d been through, I told myself this would be a new beginning.
Madame Veray greeted me at the entrance, her figure framed by the enormous double doors. She was tall and elegant, with a presence that commanded attention without needing to raise her voice. Her smile was warm, almost motherly, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that she truly wanted to help me.

“Lena Castell,” she said, her tone lilting as though tasting the syllables of my name. “Welcome to my home. I trust your journey wasn’t too arduous?”

I gave her a polite smile, though I could feel the ache in my feet from hours of travel. “Not at all. Your driver was wonderful.”

She nodded, her smile widening. “Good. I want you to be comfortable here. This is your home now, as much as it is mine. Come, let me show you inside.”

The mansion’s interior was breathtaking. Marble floors stretched out in every direction, reflecting the light from a massive crystal chandelier that hung above the foyer. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something richer, almost spicy. Every detail spoke of wealth and taste—ornate mirrors, intricate carvings on the stair railings, and paintings that looked like they belonged in a museum. It was overwhelming in the best way, and for the first time in months, I felt a flicker of hope.
Madame Veray led me down a long corridor, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

“You’ll have everything you need here. My staff will take care of you, and Chef Vivian will prepare your meals. She’s quite talented, I assure you.”

The mention of meals made my stomach tighten, though I wasn’t sure if it was with hunger or nerves. I hadn’t been eating much lately—grief and shame didn’t leave much room for an appetite. Still, the idea of someone cooking just for me felt strangely comforting.

“Your room is just ahead,” Madame Veray continued. “I’ve made sure it’s suited to your tastes, though if there’s anything you need, simply let me know.”

When she opened the door, I couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped me. The room was enormous, with a canopied bed draped in silk, a sitting area by a large bay window, and a vanity that looked like something out of a royal palace. A tray of fresh fruit and a bottle of wine sat waiting on the coffee table, as though inviting me to indulge.

“This is… beautiful,” I said, turning to Madame Veray.

Her smile softened, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or something darker. “You deserve beautiful things, Lena,” she said. “This is your fresh start. Take your time settling in. Dinner will be at seven.”

With that, she left, closing the door quietly behind her. I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The room, the mansion, the promise of a new life, it all felt too good to be true, but I was too tired to question it. For now, I would let myself believe in the fantasy.

Dinner was served in a dining room that could have doubled as a ballroom. The table was long enough to seat twenty, but tonight, it was set for one. A candelabra dominated the center, its flickering light reflected in the polished wood of the table and the dark windows lining the room. It felt strange, sitting there alone, surrounded by so much space and grandeur. I almost wanted to laugh at how absurd it felt—me, of all people, in a place like this.

Vivian appeared silently, as if summoned by the thought of food. She was younger than I’d expected for someone with such a reputation, with sharp eyes and a posture that suggested she was always on the verge of leaving. She placed the first course before me without a word: a small plate of delicate pastries filled with something creamy and savory, their edges golden and perfect. The smell made my stomach tighten, a reminder of how little I’d eaten all day.

“Chef Vivian,” Madame Veray’s voice floated in from the doorway, warm and commanding, “won’t you tell our guest about tonight’s menu?”

Vivian hesitated, then spoke in a clipped tone. “The first course is gougères with a gruyère and truffle filling. For the entrée, we have duck confit with a cherry reduction, served with pommes dauphine. Dessert is a dark chocolate soufflé with a hint of orange.”

The words by themselves sounded delicious and decadent, luxurious and indulgent; this was the kind of food that I’d been accustomed to eating regularly when times were good, but had been out of reach for me since the scandal broke. My cheeks flushed as I realized how eagerly I was leaning forward.

“Thank you, Vivian,” Madame Veray said smoothly. She turned to me with a smile that felt almost maternal. “Please, enjoy. This is your time to indulge.”

The first bite was an experience. The pastry melted in my mouth, rich and buttery, with the sharpness of the cheese and the earthy depth of the truffle cutting through. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring the taste. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t thinking about the whispers or the headlines—I was just eating.

Each course was more decadent than the last. The duck was so tender it practically fell apart under my fork, the cherries providing a sweet, tangy contrast. By the time the soufflé arrived, its delicate crust giving way to molten chocolate, I felt full in a way I hadn’t in months. Not just physically, but emotionally, as though something inside me had been soothed.
When I finished, Madame Veray clapped her hands gently, as though applauding a performance.

“Well done, my dear. Now, there’s just one more thing.”

Two staff members entered, wheeling in what looked like an antique scale. It was ornate, its brass gleaming in the candlelight, and far larger than any scale I’d ever seen. My stomach twisted as they positioned it beside the table.

“Step onto the scale, please,” Madame Veray said, her tone light and encouraging, as though she were asking me to try on a pair of shoes. “It’s just a little ritual we have here. Nothing to be concerned about.”

I hesitated, glancing at Vivian, who busied herself clearing the table as though this were the most normal thing in the world. The staff stood silently, their faces impassive. Madame Veray’s smile remained fixed, patient.

I stood, feeling suddenly self-conscious in the dress Madame Veray had given me earlier. My footsteps echoed as I approached the scale. The brass felt cool under my fingers as I stepped onto it, the platform creaking slightly under my weight. A needle swung wildly before settling on a number I hadn’t seen in months.

“Beautiful,” Madame Veray said softly, her smile deepening. “You’re in the perfect place to grow, my dear.”

The word stuck in my mind as I stepped down. Grow. I wasn’t sure if I should feel flattered or humiliated, but I told myself it didn’t matter. This was my fresh start.

Whatever that meant.