The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 46 - 48

Chapter 46

Ice shot through my veins.

I bolted upright so fast my whole body jiggled—belly, thighs, arms, everything—but I barely noticed, too busy gripping my phone like it might physically hold me together.

“Umm, video?” My voice came out too high, too breathless. Not good. Not good at all.

“On YouTube!” she shrieked, voice a volatile cocktail of rage, hysteria, and pure, unfiltered Mom panic. “The one saying my daughter is an OnlyFans model! The one where you’re wiggling around in some tiny little outfit, your rear end out for the whole world to see!”

Ohhh. No.

It finally happened. It actually finally happened.

Cel Monroe had gotten too big. Too famous. Maybe it was only a matter of time before my secret wasn’t a secret anymore. Still—every leaked video, every pirated clip? Supposed to be wiped. That was Jenna’s job. Literally what I paid her for. Cel Monroe was only supposed to be found by the ones looking for her.

And yet, here we were.

And now, my mother—the woman who spent her entire life wrapped in one-piece swimsuits, counting every calorie, measuring every portion, cutting every carb, and scrutinizing every single bite I ever put in my mouth—knew.

I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping my phone too tight, like I could physically hold back the shame crashing over me.

“Mom,” I whispered. “It’s not what you think—”

"I did some research. I know what this is. You are selling yourself!" she screamed. “You are—flaunting yourself like—like—”

I could hear the disgust. The absolute betrayal in her voice.

I sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, fighting to keep it together, to keep my voice steady, to stop my hands from shaking. I reached for another brownie, took a bite. 

“I (chew, chew) am not—”

"You are half-naked!" she shrieked. "You are setting a terrible example!"

I winced, chest tightening. Washed the brownie down with the rest of my wine. "Mom, please—"

"What about Stella and Molly? What will they think? What will they see? That their older cousin—the one they adore—is stuffing her face with cake in her underwear?! Rolling around like some—some plaything for men?"

My throat burned.

“Mom, (huff) they would never find out.”

“I found out!” 

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. I tried—tried—to swallow them down.

“I—” My voice cracked. I clenched my jaw, forced something out, anything. “You have no idea what I do on Onlyfans. You think it’s porn or something. It’s not! I’m expressing a side of myself I never could before. I’m an artist. It’s not bad, Mom—”

“Oh really?” she cut in. “Then why did you hide it from me? Why don’t you just say what it is?”

I hesitated.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

“You can’t can you?” she seethed. “That’s why you do this—why you hide behind this Cel Monroe. You know this is wrong. That’s why you won’t even use your real name.”

Heat flared in my cheeks, rage curling tight in my chest. Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the rest of my brownie and shoved it into my mouth.

“(chew)Cel Monroe (chew, chew) lets me be more myself than you ever did!” I shot back, words muffled but thick with fury. “And I am setting a good example! I’m (chew) showing that real beauty has nothing to do with size or weight. I’m promoting body positivity, something you wouldn’t know a fucking thing about!”

Her breath hitched, but she recovered fast, her voice snapping back, sharp and furious. “You are objectifying your own body! You’re glorifying overeating, you are teaching women to binge on sugar!” She huffed, voice dripping in disgust. “You’re even eating right now, aren’t you?!”

I froze. Swallowed.

She went on.

“You’re showing off your belly like you’re proud of it. Proud! Frankly I don’t understand how you’re so popular after getting so big! You have rolls, for God’s sake! You have a serious weight problem Celeste! How could you let yourself go this much?”

She sounded horrified, like I’d personally shattered some sacred vow. Like I’d disappointed the ancestors.

“Do you have any idea how unhealthy that is? It’s going to catch up with you. You won’t be young forever.” A pause, then, with that clipped, judgmental edge only she could pull off—“And what does Rory think?”

I clenched my eyes shut, pressing my fingers into my temple. “Mom, I dumped Rory.”

“I knew it!”

“Mom, I didn’t love him. Didn’t even like him, really.”

“Because he disapproved of your weight, probably!”

No.

No, no, no. Not this.

Not this conversation.

I couldn’t do this.

Then she said it.

“Why didn’t you just marry Tanner? He never would have let you go down this path.”

My eyes flew open.

“Oh my God,” I said, staring at the ceiling like maybe divine intervention would save me. “Are you (pant) fucking kidding me?”

“He loved you, Celeste!” she snapped. “He would have taken care of you! You could have had a real life—”

My hand fisted the comforter, rage bubbling up so hot it felt like it was crawling under my skin, lighting me up from the inside out.

“A real life?” I shot back, voice raw, shaking. “You mean (huff) like getting a divorce like you?”

Silence.

“I canceled the wedding because I didn’t love him Mom. And you know what he said when I left?”

More silence.

“He said I was (pant) starting to get a fat ass.”

The air cracked.

I heard her sharp inhale.

“Well,” she said, voice cold, cutting. “Looks like you proved him right.”

My cheeks flamed hotter, and I grabbed another brownie, shoved it in my mouth, chewing furiously.

“Oh (chew, chew) screw you, Mom! Guess (chew) what? That fat ass makes me well over five figures a month. I just bought a fucking highrise fucking condo—with my own money! Literal celebrities send me DMs. So who’s laughing now?”

Her breath hitched. “You bought a condo?”

“Yeah.”

She sighed, long and heavy, like I ruined her whole outlook on life. “You have been blessed with a lot of beauty, Celeste, but I am very disappointed that you’ve chosen to use it like this. If you wanted to be a model or an actress, you could have been. If you kept your weight in check. But this… OnlyFans?”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, sinking deeper into my bed. “Oh right, because models never get exploited, actresses never have to deal with fucking Harvey Weinsteins and casting couch bullshit. I’d probably end up bulimic and sucking dick just to keep a job—is that really what you’d prefer? This way, I’m my own boss. I call the shots. I have total control.”

A pause.

“Well,” she sniffed, voice tight, “I think what you’re doing is wrong and, frankly, disgusting.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives. “Whatever! (huff) You’re (gasp) just jealous OnlyFans wasn’t around when you were young.”

She gasped, all fake shock and wounded pride. “I would never do such a thing.”

Then her voice came sharp—like a knife wrapped in ice. “And when people ask about you, what am I supposed to say? What do I tell Kim? Or Fialka? Or Tammy?!”

Ah. There it was.

Not about me. Never about me.

It was about looking good in front of her stupid fake friends. Because God forbid Kim, Fialka, and Tammy find out their husbands were sliding into my DMs.

“Ohhh, (gasp) so that’s it!” I snapped, throwing up a hand, my belly shaking right along with it. “That’s (pant)what you really care about! Not that I’m happy. Not that I’m successful. Not that I actually love my body for the first time in my entire life! No. It’s all about you. Your stupid luncheons. Your little Pilates friends! God forbid they find out your daughter is hot as hell and making more money than all of their stupid kids combined!”

“Celeste—”

“Nope.” I cut her off, licking chocolate from my thumb.“You don’t get to do this. Not anymore.”

She let out another one of those long, suffering sighs that made me want to chuck my phone across the room. 

“Why do you always have to be so difficult?” she said. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

And boom.

My whole body went stiff, heat rushing up my chest, across my face, the kind of rage that didn’t just simmer—it boiled over.

“Fuck you Mom!”

“Oh, that is it!” she shot back. “I don’t want to speak to you again until you’ve quit this hideous OnlyFans thing.”

I curled my fingers tight around the phone, rage vibrating through every inch of me.

“Fine by me..”

I ended the call.

Hands shaking. Chest tight. Couldn’t seem to get enough air. How could my mom be so fucking clueless?

Breathing frantically, I shoved another brownie in my mouth, chewing hard as I struggled to sit up, my belly pressing into my thighs. Forced myself to drag my heavy, jiggling ass off my bed and out to the balcony.

Lit a cigarette.

And ordered a whole fucking cake off DoorDash.

Just out of spite.

Chapter 47

I tried to drown it out. The sting of my mom’s words, the weight of her disappointment, the way her voice had cut through me, like she hadn’t just hurt me—like she’d meant to.

So, I numbed.

January passed in a sugar-fueled, wine-drenched, THC-laced haze—a soft, sweet mess where days bled into nights and nights into something I couldn’t even name.

Trays of cookies, cartons of ice cream, cheesecake, and the steady knock on my door of yet another DoorDash delivery waiting for me.

My big TV in the living room fought for dominance against the one in my bedroom, both glowing in the dark like crime-solving shrines. My phone never left my hand—scrolling, tapping, swiping—mindlessly stuffing my face while playing Minecraft, locked into what could only be described as elite girl-rot mode.

Did it fix anything?

No.

I told myself it wasn’t about her. Not really. Not about my fat-phobic, fat-shaming mother, her voice cold and cruel on the other end of that call, slicing through me like I was something broken, something ruined.

So why did every bite feel like both rebellion and punishment?

Why did I keep reaching—cookie, wine, cigarettes—like I could bury her voice under layers of sugar and smoke?

Mom was wrong.

But Mom was still Mom.

And her words stuck. Thick and cloying, like caramel on my fingertips—hard to scrub away, lingering long after I’d licked them clean.

Then there was Jenna.

Couple glasses of wine in, and I called her. Shouldn’t have, but I did.

Went straight for the jugular—no warm-up, no filter, just bam. It escalated fast.

What started as a call turned into a full-on text war. Her throwing shots like, This whole Cel Monroe thing’s gone to your head, and You don’t have to pay me anymore.

Me firing back with, Damn right I don’t.

And just like that, we weren’t talking.

Mom shutting me out, Jenna bailing, all of it left a bitter taste.

But I didn’t need her. Didn’t need either of them. I could handle Cel Monroe on my own. Manage my socials, deal with the leaks, outsource the DMCA takedowns.

Keep it all going.

Because I had to.

Mom didn’t understand me. Jenna didn’t even understand me anymore. So I shoved them both out of my head—because I didn’t need that kind of negativity in my life.

Edibles in the morning, edibles at night. Wine whenever the hell I felt like it. A permanent fog wrapped around me, keeping everything soft, dull, quiet. Keeping Mom’s voice from echoing in my head every second of the day.

I ate. I drank. 

I ordered more food.

And then I did it again.

And again.

And again.

Chapter 48

By February, getting out of bed wasn’t just hard—it was a whole production. Some days, I barely bothered. Just sank deeper into my perfume-scented sheets, grabbed my phone, and ordered everything. Burgers. Fries. Extra-large pizzas. Double orders of pasta. Pint after pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Because fuck Mom and fuck Jenna!

And the weight? It piled on, making every movement feel all the more sluggish, heavy. When I finally forced myself onto the scale—ignoring its creak of protest—it flashed back: 288. Just a number. But one I felt. My fans got a weigh-in, me playing the seductress, selling the curves, acting like the digits were proof of rebellion, of freedom. And in some ways? They were.

But once the camera stopped rolling?

I was wrecked.

Moving was a struggle. Breathing? Even worse.

My panties were maxed out, clinging for dear life. Just walking around the condo left me winded, tugging at wedgies, smacking into tables and chairs like they’d moved without telling me.

My hips and thighs were covered in little mystery bruises to go along with my tiger stripes, courtesy of furniture I used to breeze past. But now? My brain hadn’t quite caught up to how wide I’d gotten.

Standing too long in the shower had me pressed up against the cold tile, panting, like it was the only thing keeping me from sliding to the floor.

Mornings kicked off with heartburn. Nights ended in food comas.

Sometimes I’d wake up gasping for air, heart pounding, chest tight, like I’d just surfaced from drowning. That awful, choking sensation of not getting enough breath. But then I’d sit up, grab my vape, take a drag, and tell myself it was nothing.

Just stress. Just too much wine. Just one bad night.

And then? I’d do it all over again.

Eat more. Smoke more. Let the nights stretch long and hazy, the days slow and sluggish, the scale inch closer to a number I refused to think about. Because the truth? It was easier.

Easier to sink into comfort, into the warm cocoon of my bed, my food, my wine, my cigarettes. Easier to shut out Mom’s voice, still gnawing at me from that awful phone call.

Valentine’s Day was creeping closer, my twenty-fifth birthday right behind it. No Jenna, no Rory, no Chase, no Jordan, and definitely no Aaron. No job to commute to. Just me, my fans, and the creeping loneliness I refused to admit was getting to me.

I needed something. Someone.

Not a boyfriend. That meant effort, the whole getting to know you process, expectations, judgment—none of which I had the patience for.

I needed something mine. Something soft, small, something that wouldn’t side-eye me for inhaling an entire deep-dish pizza at 2 a.m.

One slow, hazy morning, stomach still too full from the night before, I reached for my phone. But not for DoorDash this time. 

I’d always loved cats. Grew up with a Persian named Lulu, though technically, she was Claire’s. Old, snobby, indifferent—basically my mother in feline form—but I adored her anyway. She died when I was fourteen, and ever since, I’d wanted one of my own. Problem was, I also wanted freedom. Wanted to travel, to move, to never be tied down. But now? Now I had this big, empty condo, a space that felt way too quiet, way too still. And the idea of filling it with something soft, warm, and alive felt… right.

I started scrolling breeders’ websites, half-distracted, half-serious—until I saw her. A little Himalayan kitten with tiny white paws, fur like a damn cloud, and big icy-blue eyes that looked straight through the screen and into my soul. Mischievous. Regal. Trouble.

That was it. I was done.

I had to see her in person.

One cuddle. One soft little purr. And I was done for. Didn’t even pretend to hesitate—my credit card was out before I could blink. Two grand for a kitten? Done. No regrets.

The breeder called her Princess. Yeah, nope. Too much of a reminder of Jordan. She was mine, and I needed to name her myself. And the second I held her against my chest, felt her tiny, perfect warmth nuzzle into me, the name just came.

Muggles.

Not because of Harry Potter—never actually read the books—but because she just was a Muggles. Adorable. Fluffy. A little lost. Completely dependent on me.

I brought her home, stocked up with the cutest little food bowls, a self-cleaning litter box that cost as much as a designer handbag, gourmet cat treats, plush pink beds she’d probably never touch—because, like me, she preferred the finer things in life but would ultimately ignore them for whatever was most expensive and inconvenient.

My condo—already an over-the-top, velvet-draped shrine to comfort—was now Muggles’ kingdom too. And honestly? That felt right. Luxurious. The two of us? High-maintenance, well-kept, and entirely too spoiled.

Then, my wake-up call came early. Way too early. Like eight a.m. early.

Tiny paws pressed into my soft, plush belly, little claws kneading like she was working dough, a fluffy, purring reminder that my life now ran on kitten time. My eyes cracked open, head pounding from last night’s wine, and I groaned, shifting my very soft, very heavy body beneath my silk sheets.

Muggles perched on me like a tiny, furry queen, staring down with pure feline judgment, completely unimpressed with my life choices.

I rolled over, tried to sit up, failed spectacularly.

My belly swayed, thighs tangled, gravity became my mortal enemy.

And that was the moment.

I needed to detox myself. Get my breath back. My energy back.

I needed to prove to fucking Sam Walters, to my mother, my sister, and every judgy friend-of-a-friend sipping their overpriced smoothies after Pilates, that I was in control of my body. My weight. My life.

So, I did the thing.

I squeezed myself into the cute, ultra-stretchy, allegedly “buttery soft” leggings I’d impulse-bought online—the ones that had rave reviews about “second-skin comfort” and “ultimate stretch.”

And okay, they were stretchy.

A lot stretchy.

But apparently, not stretchy enough for my ass.

My entire body bounced, wobbled, jiggled, shifting as I shimmied and wrestled my way into them. Lower belly, upper belly—hell, all of it demanding more space than these leggings were prepared to give.

Finally, I won the battle, but at what cost?

I caught my breath, stared at my reflection, ran my hands over my belly, fingers sinking into the plushness.

And yeah, I loved it.

But I also loved breathing.

Which was why, before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my tripod and hit record.

No glam. No script. Just me. Finally deciding to really hold myself accountable.

Sprawled across my bed in my new workout set, ass popped just enough to keep their attention, my high ponytail swishing, loose tendrils framing my face just right. Muggles curled up in front of me, the perfect soft-girl aesthetic accessory, while I smirked at the camera, owning the moment.

And I told them the truth.

That I wasn’t going to gain anymore. That I couldn’t. That for my mental health, my physical health—hell, my constant heartburn and the terrifying midnight panic attacks—I had to stop. Had to drop a few pounds.

I told them I was still me—soft, sensual, indulgent, sexy as sin—but 240 pounds was where I was supposed to be. Just like I told Jordan and Chase months ago.

Where I could still breathe easy, move without feeling like gravity had doubled, exist without my thighs taking up a quarter of my sectional.

And this time?

I meant it.

No more spiraling. No more numbing out.

Definitely not because of anything Mom or Claire said.

I was doing this for me.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 

by Jolene Dubois (2025)