Starving on Her Three Million Chapter 2

The production team had secured an aging strip mall behind the warehouse.

The director announced the morning's schedule: forcing the "pampered elite" to endure authentic, blue-collar physical labor.

There were four other participants.

A lifestyle influencer who complained within three minutes that the staging trailer didn't have an espresso machine.

A pop singer named Jason who wore designer sunglasses and complained that the concrete floor smelled like damp mold.

And a couple of travel vloggers who insisted they were ready to "rough it," yet had two personal assistants carrying garment bags behind them.

When they looked at me, their expressions held that familiar blend of morbid curiosity and disgust.

Jason offered a limp hand. "Mr. Clark. Heard all about you."

His eyes flicked from my threadbare hoodie down to my canvas sneakers. The outer rubber sole had split three weeks ago, and I had secured it with a strip of white duct tape.

His grin turned razor-sharp. "Distressed designer? Very avant-garde."

I didn’t answer. Truth had no currency here.

Greg announced the morning shift: hauling heavy logistics crates, sorting dry-goods pallets, and scrubbing concrete stairwells. No lunch would be served until every pallet was signed off.

The influencer threw his hands up. "Are you kidding? We didn't even get a continental breakfast!"

The director smiled pleasantly. "The core theme of the show is breaking codependency."

"Breaking codependency."

I almost laughed aloud. I had lost the luxury of depending on anything a long time ago.

Back at the penthouse, there was a handcrafted mattress worth more than a luxury sedan. Yet I woke up nearly every night shivering from hunger pangs. The kitchen had a commercial-grade Viking range and rare vintages in the wine room, but the main refrigerator doors were fitted with digital keypad locks.

The house manager had informed me those ingredients were strictly reserved for formal private dinners. "Personal foraging is not permitted."

I had grown used to the hunger.

The warehouse was stifling, thick with dust and diesel exhaust. The other contestants collapsed onto upturned crates after twenty minutes.

I didn't mind the physical weight of the boxes. What terrified me was the vertigo.

When you starve for long enough, you don't feel hunger in your belly anymore. It hits you as a cold sweat on your neck, a violent tremor in your wrists, and a sudden, gray vignette that eats the edges of your vision.

I hauled carton after carton onto the metal shelving units, pulling my sleeves down over my knuckles so the cameras wouldn't capture how violently my fingers were trembling.

Greg strolled over with a boom mic. "James, how's the real world treating you?"

"Fine," I breathed, wiping my forehead.

"Not quite the lifestyle you're used to, is it?"

I forced a faint, bloodless smile. "I'm managing."

In truth, I had worked harder than this. Before my father's business collapsed, I had lived a comfortable life. But after his sudden death, my younger brother's leukemia diagnosis, and the debt collectors hammering on our front door, I had bussed diner tables until three in the morning and unloaded delivery trucks on the docks just to scrape together medicine co-pays.

Back then, no matter how bruised my hands were, I had a paycheck at the end of the week.

Until Eleanor Hardy stepped into that hospital waiting room.

She had stood there in a bespoke charcoal wool coat, smelling of cedarwood and money, and told me: "I will settle your father's estate. I will cover your brother's treatments at the clinic. You never have to beg for a dollar again."

I was foolish enough to believe she had saved me.

During the midday break, the producers set up a live feed to Eleanor's office.

The monitor glowed to life. Eleanor was sitting at the head of a long boardroom table, framed by glass and steel. Her dark hair was pulled into a precise chignon, her face cool and remote as her corporate vice presidents quietly gathered their folders and filed out the door.

Greg smiled into the camera. "Ms. Hardy, watching James put in an honest day's labor... any words for him?"

Eleanor looked through the screen, her eyes finding mine.

She didn't ask if I was holding up. She didn't ask if I had eaten.

Her first words were: "Don't embarrass yourself by cutting corners."

I kept my eyes fixed on the dusty concrete. "I'm not."

Her brows drew together. "Simon mentioned you were badgering him for an advance again last week."

My head snapped up.

All I had asked for was fifty dollars so I could buy a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter because my checking account was at zero.

Eleanor's voice took on that frosty edge that always made my stomach knot. "James, desire must have boundaries. I have never refused to provide for you. But I will not allow my money to indulge your lack of discipline."

Looking at her through the screen, a suffocating sense of absurdity rose in my chest.

"Indulge my lack of discipline?"

In the end, all I could whisper was, "Understood."

That only seemed to irritate her further. "It's always that same passive response. I hope this experience actually breaks through to you."

The satellite link clicked off. The screen went dark.

The whispers from the crew and contestants rippled across the staging area. Jason murmured to the influencer, "If even Eleanor Hardy says he's out of control, imagine what he burns through behind closed doors."

I looked down at my hands.

The skin on my knuckle had split against a wooden crate, a thin bead of red gathering in the dry crease. It stung sharply.

I pressed my thumb against the cut.

The pain was good. It was sharp enough to drown out the hollow, burning ache in my gut.