Chapter 1

At a fake socialite gathering, Marilyn Sterling pointed at my nose and laughed mockingly.

"A woman with your body type doesn't deserve to stand here. You don't deserve to be on the same level as these girls using Ozempic.

You don't even have the right to drink from the same glass as them―

Because your very existence lowers the class of this entire circle.

Being fat is the original sin. Being fat means you deserve to be looked down upon. Being fat means you deserve to be alone.

Being fat means you deserve―to be the one left behind."

Meanwhile, my hand brushed against something hard in my bag.

A dark blue leather case. A silver federal emblem. My Special Agent credentials from the FDA.

In the next moment, I'll see if you can still keep that smile on your face...

###1.

My name is Nora Sullivan. I'm with the FDA's Criminal Investigations Office.

Three months ago, we received an anonymous tip―a weight-loss injection called "S-Luxe" had appeared in Manhattan's elite socialite circles. It claimed to be gentler, more effective, and far more expensive than the standard Semaglutide. A single course cost thirty thousand dollars. Those who didn't take the shots couldn't even cross the threshold of this social circle.

My mission was to figure out the distribution channel, gather evidence, and shut it down.

So, for three months, I pretended to be a social media influencer from Miami. I claimed I'd made some money through live-streamed fitness sales and wanted to break into the New York high-society scene. My manager was Phoebe Quinn―actually a colleague from the FDA lab. My social media feed was full of photoshopped selfies and high-end brunch photos. My weight was one hundred and thirty pounds.

In this circle, one hundred and thirty pounds was a death sentence.

Today, I was attending Marilyn Sterling's private tea party. It was held on the top floor of an old brownstone in Chelsea. After stepping out of the elevator, I had to pass through a long hallway. Full-length mirrors lined both sides. Everyone who walked in was forced to look at themselves in the glass.

In the mirror, I saw my waist. It wasn't thin. But I stood very straight.

Seven women sat in the living room. The sofas were dove gray, and no one touched the pastries on the coffee table. In front of each person sat a glass of lemon water and a small saucer. On the saucer were three white pills.

Marilyn walked to the center of the room and clapped her hands.

"Scale first."

A woman in a white lab coat pushed over a digital scale. The surface was tempered glass, branded with the "Marilyn Aesthetics" logo.

The woman on the far left of the sofa stood up. She kicked off her stilettos and stepped on.

"One hundred and seven point four. Pass."

The second, the third, the fourth.

"One hundred and one point six. Pass." "One hundred and ten point九. Over. Double the dose starting tomorrow." "Ninety-six point five. Pass."

The fifth one. It was my turn.

I stood before the scale. Marilyn glanced at my figure, then at my profile on her tablet. Her lip curled to one side.

"How much do you weigh?"

"One-thirty."

Someone laughed. It was a soft sound, like nails scraping against silk.

"Don't bother with the scale," Marilyn gestured. The woman in the lab coat pushed it away. "Nora, right? I'll be honest. At your weight, you'd need at least four months on my shots to get under a hundred. Four months is sixty thousand dollars. Can you afford that?"

"I can afford it."

Marilyn tilted her head, studying me for about five seconds.

"Fine. But I have one condition. You have to prove you're worthy of staying in this circle first. I'm hosting a gala tonight―everyone attending has been on the shots for over a year. If you come, a lot of eyes will be on you. Can you handle the pressure?"

"I can handle it."

"Good." She pulled a black invitation from her handbag. It was embossed with gold letters―Marilyn's Night. "Eight PM. Pier 17. Don't be late."

When she handed me the invitation, her fingertips didn't touch me.

It was as if she was handing over something she didn't even want to be near.

I put the invitation in my pocket. As I turned to leave, I passed that full-length mirror again. In the reflection, Marilyn was sitting on the sofa, picking up a glass of room-temperature champagne. The light hit her face. Her cheekbones were high. Her eye sockets were deep.

I only found out later―she was afraid to turn on the lights at night because the person she saw in the mirror wasn't a hundred pounds at all.