Her new ass barely fit into the old jeans. Every step from the cab to the porch had been hell — denim fighting back, seams screaming for mercy, the tightness pressing against swollen flesh that still pulsed with heat from the procedure.
But the real weight wasn’t in her glutes — it was in the duffel bag she gripped like a lifeline.
Overpacked. Heavy. Smelling faintly of tanning oil, protein bars, and regret. Yana stood at the threshold of her own damn home, staring at the door like it might explode if she touched it.
Only now — now, after the whirlwind of injections, secret meetups, sweat-soaked stage lights and backseat fucks — did the full weight of it hit her.
She wasn’t just a stupid bimbo. She was a cheater. A mother who bailed.
She had ghosted her husband, abandoned her sweet little babies… for what? For another shot at plastic glory? For validation from strangers with spray tans and gold spray-painted trophies?
Her gut twisted harder than her post-surgery glutes.
How the hell was she supposed to look any of them in the eye?