emily 6

Chapter 6: Emily's Miami Nights
On the fourth day of her Miami getaway, Emily awoke with a pounding headache and a growling stomach. Last night's drinking had left her with a brutal hangover, and the first thought in her foggy mind was finding something greasy to eat and a bloody mary to take the edge off. She shuffled to the kitchen in an oversized t-shirt that barely covered her expansive midsection, her swollen ankles protesting each step.
When she entered the kitchen, Max was already there, impeccably dressed in linen pants and a light blue button-up that contrasted with his tanned skin. He smiled when he saw her, seemingly unbothered by her disheveled appearance.
"Good morning, beautiful," he said, sipping his espresso. "I think we should take it easy on the drinks today. I want to take you clubbing tonight – show you the real Miami nightlife."
Emily's face fell slightly. The thought of abstaining from alcohol or weed for an entire day seemed like torture, especially with her hangover screaming for relief.
"But I feel like crap," she whined, her voice still raspy from sleep. She waddled to the refrigerator and yanked the door open, her substantial belly pressing against it as she leaned in to survey the contents. "I need something to take the edge off."
"Trust me," Max said firmly but kindly. "You'll thank me later. Let's have a proper breakfast instead. Denise has prepared something special."
As if on cue, Denise appeared with a tray loaded with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit. Emily's mood immediately improved at the sight of food, her mouth watering as she lowered herself carefully into a chair that creaked under her weight.
Later, when Max disappeared for an important business call, Emily seized the opportunity. She waddled to the balcony where Carmen and Lucia were tidying up, her breath already heavy from the short walk.
"Hey girls," she whispered conspiratorially, pulling a joint from the pocket of her stretchy shorts. "Wanna take a little break with me?"
The maids exchanged glances—half excited, half nervous—before nodding. Emily lit up, taking deep drags before passing it around. While the maids quickly became giggly and red-eyed, Emily felt only a slight buzz. Her tolerance after months of constant smoking meant she needed far more to feel properly high.
For the next few hours, the penthouse descended into subtle chaos. Carmen kept misplacing items she was supposed to be organizing. Lucia broke two glasses while trying to set the table for lunch. Denise, typically the most composed, kept forgetting what Max had asked her to prepare for dinner.
When Max returned from his call, his brow furrowed at the state of things.
"Lucia, I asked for those documents to be organized an hour ago," he said sharply.
"Yes, Mr. Max, I'm sorry," Lucia giggled, then tried to straighten her face.
"And Carmen, what happened to the living room? It looks worse than before you started cleaning it."
Emily observed this scene from the couch, where she was sprawled out with a bowl of chips balanced on her stomach, trying not to laugh. There was something deliciously amusing about being the cause of this disorder while Max remained clueless.

After lunch, Max announced they were going shopping. Emily groaned at the prospect of walking but perked up when Max mentioned they'd be driven everywhere in his private car.
"You need something special for tonight," he said, eyes twinkling. "And perhaps a few other things while we're at it."
The first stop was a high-end jewelry store where the staff greeted Max by name. Emily's eyes widened as she was seated in a plush chair (after testing it discreetly with her hand to ensure it would hold her weight) and offered champagne while various diamond pieces were presented to her.
"The necklace," Max decided, pointing to an elegant diamond pendant. "And the matching earrings."
Emily's fingers, plump and adorned with chipped nail polish, delicately touched the diamonds. "Are you serious? These must cost a fortune."
Max waved away her concern. "Nothing but the best for you."
The next stop was more intimidating—clothing stores. Emily typically shopped online, avoiding the judging eyes of salespeople and the embarrassment of not fitting into anything. But Max seemed to know exactly where to go, leading her to boutiques that specialized in designer plus-size fashion.
"How do you know these places?" Emily asked suspiciously as they entered the third store, where the owner greeted Max with air kisses.
"I make it my business to know the best of everything," he replied smoothly.
By the end of their shopping expedition, Emily was exhausted despite having barely walked more than a few steps between the car and each store. Her feet were swollen, and she was desperate for a snack, despite having eaten a large lunch just hours earlier.
Back at the penthouse, after a dinner where Emily consumed twice what anyone else did, it was time to try on the outfits for the evening. Max sat on a large armchair in Emily's guest room while the maids arranged themselves on the edge of the bed. Emily emerged from the bathroom in the first outfit—a black sequined dress with strategic ruching.
"Turn around," Max instructed, twirling his finger.
Emily complied, though the movement left her slightly winded.
"I think it's beautiful," Denise offered. "The way it cinches at the waist is very flattering."
Max frowned slightly. "I prefer the red one with the open back. This one hides too much of your figure."
Five outfits later, a pattern had emerged. Max consistently preferred the tighter, more revealing options that emphasized Emily's size, while the maids gravitated toward designs that created more traditional silhouettes. Emily, caught between these opposing viewpoints, finally selected a sparkly gold dress that clung to every roll and curve, mostly because it required the least effort to put on and seemed to please Max the most.

At eleven o'clock, Emily checked her appearance one final time in the mirror. The gold dress reflected the light, making her impossible to miss. Her makeup was flawless—applied by Lucia, who had a surprising talent for it—and the diamond pendant nestled in her cleavage. Despite her exhaustion from the day and the late hour, she felt a flutter of excitement.
"It's so late," she commented as Max helped her into the car. "I'm usually in bed by now, watching Netflix and having my fourth meal of the day."
Max chuckled. "Miami doesn't even wake up until midnight."
The club was in a renovated art deco building, with a line stretching around the block. Emily felt a momentary panic at the thought of standing in that line, her feet already aching in her specially ordered heels. But Max guided her past everyone, directly to a burly bouncer who unhooked the velvet rope immediately upon seeing him.
Inside, the music was deafening, bodies packed together on the dance floor moving in rhythm. Max led Emily up a private staircase to a roped-off balcony area overlooking the main floor. A bottle of champagne awaited them, along with a selection of small appetizers that Emily immediately descended upon.
But as the night wore on, Emily found herself increasingly bored. From their isolated perch, they could see the party but not really participate in it. Max seemed out of place too, checking his watch frequently and wincing whenever the music hit a particularly intense beat.
Emily watched the crowd below, bodies pressed together, laughing and dancing without inhibition. Despite her usual preference for solitude and her mild social anxiety when sober, she felt a surprising desire to be down there among them.
After just two drinks, Max leaned over. "Would you like to go?" he shouted over the music.
Emily nodded, relieved.
In the car ride home, Max seemed deflated, his earlier confidence diminished.
"I'm sorry," he said, staring out the window at the passing Miami nightscape. "That wasn't what I hoped it would be. I thought you might enjoy seeing that side of Miami, but I'm afraid I'm not the best guide for it anymore."
Emily shrugged, the movement causing her multiple chins to wobble slightly. "It's okay. I didn't think clubbing would be my thing anyway. It seems like it's made for skinny girls who can dance all night and creepy guys with big egos trying to hit on them."
Max was quiet for a moment, then brightened. "Perhaps you should go again, but with the girls—Carmen, Lucia, and Denise. They're closer to your age and probably know the good spots. Places where you'd feel more comfortable."
Emily considered this, picturing herself on a dance floor, her massive body moving to the beat, people staring—some in disgust, others in fascination. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.
"Maybe," she said noncommittally, already thinking about the late-night snack awaiting her back at the penthouse and the joint she had hidden in her purse. "We'll see."