"She... looks way worse than any porn star right now. And her body's nowhere near as hot..."
He delivered his verdict with casual boredom. Then, as if worried Charity might not believe him, he rattled off my measurements from late pregnancy for comparison.
"That actress? 34-23-34. Naomi? The only thing that comes close is her hips—and only because she's pregnant."
The words landed.
Their jeering laughter tangled together.
It stabbed into my eardrums like needles.
Beneath the blanket, my fingers curled weakly into the sheet, leaving a single crease in the fabric.
"Brendan Henson."
My voice came out hoarse. Scraped raw. Drained of everything.
The two on the cot beside me went dead silent the moment they heard my voice.
Brendan turned. When his eyes met my icy stare, a flicker of discomfort crossed his face—but he recovered fast.
"Naomi… you're awake?"
"Are you feeling okay? Do you want some water?"
His expression smoothed into perfect composure as he poured a glass and brought it to my lips.
I said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward and let the water wet my cracked lips.
"So. Are you going to explain? The video."
His hand froze.