Welcome to Westbrooke : Chapter 2

Chapter 2 : Trying to Outrun It

Violet Kensington had always been obsessed with control. Control over her body. Her image. Her future. She didn’t just live with discipline—she was discipline. Her entire life was curated: her outfits, her curated “casual” selfies, her calorie tracking app, her 6 a.m. workouts.

She didn’t do chaos. She didn’t do softness.

But lately… things were slipping.

The gym was nearly empty, and the buzz of the lights overhead made her temples throb. Her sneakers hit the treadmill harder than usual, every step a frustrated punctuation mark. Her leggings felt tight. Not cute tight—tight like “did these shrink in the dryer?” tight. Her sports bra dug into her ribs, and she could swear her thighs were brushing more than they used to.

She clenched her jaw and increased the speed.

Water weight. PMS. A sodium spike. It had to be something. Something temporary. Something not real.

She kept running, harder, faster. Trying to outrun the feeling that her body wasn’t doing what it was supposed to anymore.

But the thought kept clawing at her.

What if it’s not just in your head?

By the time she stopped, her lungs were burning, her shirt was soaked, and her calves were screaming.

But worse than all of that?

She was starving.

Not like “I could use a protein shake” hungry. This was the kind of hunger that made her jaw ache and her hands twitch. Her body wanted substance. It wanted grease, sugar, salt. Something real.

She told herself to go straight to the smoothie bar.

But her feet wandered toward the hot food line.

She didn’t remember picking up a tray, but suddenly she was standing in front of the dessert display, staring at a brownie that looked like it had been made by the devil himself. It was thick, still warm, gooey in the center, with melted chocolate dripping down the sides and a glossy top that shimmered under the heat lamps.

She hesitated.

She shouldn’t. Obviously.

But God, it smelled so good. And it looked even better. Just one bite. Just a little hit.

She blinked, and the brownie was already in her hand.

Then she sat down.

Then she bit into it.

And then?

Gone.

She hadn’t just eaten it. She devoured it. Like, no-slow-chew, zero-self-awareness scarfing. The flavor exploded in her mouth—sugary, rich, buttery perfection. Her eyes fluttered shut without her permission.

And as she licked her fingers clean, she realized she was already reaching for more. She passed the snack rack on the way out and snagged a family sized bag of chips without missing a step.

Like she’d earned it.

By the time she collapsed back onto her bed, her stomach felt warm and heavy. Not painful, just… full.

Her fingers kept dipping into the bag of chips, still riding the high from the brownie. Crunch. Scroll. Crunch. Scroll.

It wasn’t until she hit the bottom of the bag that she even realized what she’d done.

She sat up abruptly and glared down at her stomach. Her waistband was cutting in deeper now, and her hips looked like they were testing the limits of her sweatpants.

She groaned, stood up, and walked across the room to her mirror.

What she saw made her freeze.

The fabric of her sweatpants was clinging to her rear in a way it definitely hadn’t a few days ago. Her waistband folded slightly over a soft, new curve of her stomach. Her reflection wasn’t dramatic, but it wasn’t the Violet she knew either.

She ran a hand over her stomach. Still toned. But not flat.

There was give.

A softness.

And her thighs?

Don’t even get her started.

“This is literally disgusting,” she muttered. “No. Absolutely not.”

Her phone buzzed.

Mom.

Violet groaned, swiping to answer. “Heyyy,” she said, forcing fake cheer into her voice like she wasn’t seconds away from spiraling.

Vivienne Kensington appeared on screen, picture-perfect in a silk robe with her platinum bob tucked neatly behind one ear. She was seated on their penthouse balcony, espresso cup in hand, surrounded by luxury that Violet suddenly missed more than she wanted to admit.

“Darling,” Vivienne drawled. “You look flushed. Just finished training?”

Violet tucked her legs under herself and straightened her posture instantly. “Yeah. Went hard today. My legs are, like, jelly.”

Vivienne raised a perfectly arched brow. “Good. And your meals?”

Violet plastered on a smile. “Super clean. I’m being, like, really strict this week.”

Her mom didn’t respond immediately. Just stared.

Then: “As you should be. You know what happens when you start getting comfortable, Violet.”

Violet’s jaw tensed, but her smile didn’t budge. “Totally. I’m not slipping.”

Vivienne sipped her espresso and nodded once, then launched into a lecture about “posture optics.” The call ended with a clipped, “Love you,” and a screen gone black.

Violet stared at her reflection again.

She pulled at her waistband, only to have it snap back into place with a soft thwack against her skin.

Yeah. Okay.

The next day didn’t help.

Because the thing was—everyone was eating more.

She saw it everywhere. In the dining hall. In class. On the quad. Girls who used to survive on black coffee were now double-fisting frappes and pastries. Even the guys who were all gym, no carbs, no excuses? Stuffing their faces with fries and sliders like it was cheat day every day.

Jason, for example. Verity’s picture-perfect boyfriend. The guy used to look like a Ken doll with abs. Now? His jawline was softening. His once-sculpted arms were starting to look more “thick” than toned. She saw him walking out of the student center with a burger in each hand, taking bites between steps.

When Violet brought it up, Verity just waved it off.

“Oh my god, please” she said, lounging at her desk. “I told him to chill on the late-night snacks, but he’s, like, obsessed with those Big Belly sliders or whatever. He says he’s bulking but, babe, like—at some point, you’re just getting fat.”

Violet smirked behind her chip bag. “You don’t sound super concerned.”

Verity shrugged, adjusting her eyeliner in her pocket mirror. "Honestly? I already told Jason if he gains one more inch, I’m done. I'm not being seen with some chunky ex-athlete who’s letting himself go before we’re even out of undergrad."

Violet laughed. “You’re joking.”

Verity didn’t even look up. “Dead serious. I’m not walking around Westbrooke arm-in-arm with someone who looks like he peaked in high school. It’s not the aesthetic I’m cultivating.”

Later that night, Violet was back on her bed, snacking again when Verity stepped out of the bathroom in her matching towel wrap and soft red slippers, swiping lip gloss across her mouth with one hand and holding her phone in the other. She eyed Violet sprawled across her bed, casually munching on chips with her hoodie pulled up just enough to reveal her softening midsection.

“Oh my god, you’re still eating?” Verity said, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Babe, you’ve literally had that bag attached to you since, like, sunset.”

Violet didn’t even flinch. She popped another chip in her mouth and smirked. “They’re good. Try one.”

Verity raised a brow and gave her a look like she’d just suggested drinking tap water. “Um. No. That stuff is actually poison. Like, straight up. Do you even know the sodium in those things?”

Violet shrugged, licking her fingers. “Relax. I went to the gym this morning.”

“Uh-huh. And then you had, what, a pastry the size of your face? And now a whole bag of—what even are those? Doom Crunch?” She squinted at the label. “That brand literally wasn’t even on the shelf last month.”

“They’re new. They slap.”

Verity scoffed. “Yeah, and so will your thighs when you walk if you keep going.”

Violet rolled her eyes but tugged her cropped hoodie, subtly trying to cover the soft curve of her belly that had started to peek over her waistband. “You’re so dramatic.”

Verity flopped onto her bed dramatically, tossing her gloss aside. “I’m just saying—like, babe, I love you, but you’re getting that little belly crease now when you sit. It’s kinda giving freshman five meets sad girl dinner.”

“Okay, rude.”

“I’m not judging,” Verity said with a fake-sweet smile. “I’m literally just looking out for you. I mean, if I started snacking like that, my mother would have me on a plane back to L.A. for an emergency cleanse at Gwyneth’s spa.”

Violet blinked. “You’re not serious.”

"Babe, I am so serious." Verity said, flipping her hair. “That’s why my dad ships me weekly meal kits from West Hollywood. Clean, vegan, zero bloat. If I ate what they serve here, you’d be wheeling me to philosophy in a forklift.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Violet muttered, grabbing another chip despite herself.

Verity raised a perfectly plucked brow. “And you’re getting soft. Just saying. If I can see your belly muffintopping over your sweats, something’s up.”

Violet sucked in slightly, cheeks flushed. “It’s just, like… water weight.”

“Mmhmm. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you when those designer sweatpants stop going past your thighs.” She leaned back, pulling her towel tighter around her chest.

“Look, I get it, comfort food is comforting or whatever, but you’re Violet Kensington. You’re, like, not meant to be chubby. It’s literally not your brand.”

Violet laughed a little too loud. “Okay first of all, I’m not chubby.”

“Yet,” Verity added, sing-song. “But the vibe’s shifting.”

Violet tossed the chip bag onto the nightstand and groaned. “You’re actually the worst.”

“And you’re welcome,” Verity beamed. “Because if I don’t bully you now, who will?”

Violet laughed, but inside?

She felt it.

The creeping pressure in her waistband. The gentle bounce in her step. The craving that never went away anymore.

She adjusted her sweats again, trying to shake it off.

But the truth was settling in, slow and sweet like syrup.

Something was changing.

And deep down, she didn’t hate it as much as she should.