Tristan had expected the private island job to be demanding, but it turned out to be the easiest modeling gig of his life. Each afternoon, he posed for a few sun-drenched swimsuit shoots along the turquoise water, flashing his practiced smile while photographers praised his angles and the stylists fussed over his hair. The rest of the day belonged entirely to him: endless naps on shaded loungers, midnight swims, cocktails brought by attentive butlers, and meals prepared by a rotating staff of chefs who seemed determined to outdo themselves at every sitting.
At first, Tristan laughed off the indulgence as a temporary perk, but after a few weeks his swimsuits began fitting tighter, his stomach softened noticeably, and his once-sharp waistline blurred beneath a new, unmistakable layer of weight. He mentioned it nervously during a fitting, tugging at the waistband of a pair of trunks that had suddenly started to dig into him, but the island’s mysterious owner only smiled from behind dark glasses and assured him he looked “richer, healthier, more desirable than ever.” Tristan wanted to believe him. The paycheck was enormous, the praise was constant, and every time he worried, another lavish meal was already waiting.