"Sir, if you're stopping, can't you help?" the girl snapped as she passed Martin, doubled over laughing.
Her face, though chubby, had sharp, striking features that caught his eye. She didn't notice his intrigued look, too busy cursing the pig sprinting toward freedom.
The pig charged on, its sturdy hooves pounding the ground. It didn't know it was a pig, nor that its fate was the dinner table. Perhaps, in its mind, it was a stallion, a swift beast outpacing the menacing, hefty creature chasing it. A stallion was born to chase freedom, not to be caged and hauled to a slaughterhouse, ended by a butcher's blade.
But a pig is just a pig. It wasn't pondering its existence—just fleeing danger on instinct. If only the chubby girl were its sole pursuer, it might've escaped. Fate, however, had other plans: Martin intervened.
Like an arrow, he shot past Lauren Findley, leaving her stunned. "My God, this guy's fast!"
What happened next shocked her more. The man in a luxury car, dressed in a tailored suit—clearly a rich kid—had inhuman strength. He overtook the pig, spun around, and stopped it dead in its tracks. With one hand, he grabbed the 280-pound beast by the neck and lifted it effortlessly.
"What the fuck!" Lauren froze, eyes wide, gaping at the scene.
That's nearly 300 pounds! Lifted with one hand? Am I dreaming?
It was like watching someone hoist Shaquille O'Neal single-handedly. But that wasn't the most shocking part.
When Lauren reached the man, she gasped, "No way, no way! I'm dreaming! Oh God, I'm gonna faint!"
"Hold off on fainting," Martin said, grinning. "Let's get this pig back in its cage. It's still squirming, and I can't promise it won't slip."
"Oh, right, okay!" Lauren stammered.
With Martin's help, she corralled the escapee back into its cage, securing the latch with wire. Blushing, she looked at him. "Are you… Martin Meyers?"
His dazzling smile sent her heart racing. "Yep, that's me. So, when you chewed me out earlier, you didn't recognize me? That makes me feel better."
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Meyers, I shouldn't have snapped at you!" She lowered her head, nervously fidgeting with her shirt.
Martin waved it off. "No need to apologize—I'm teasing. So, can I get a thank-you now?"
"Oh, gosh, I forgot!" she blurted.
"Still teasing," he chuckled. "How old are you? What's your name? In college yet?"
"I'm Lauren Findley, 17. I'll start college next year—not a great one, though, Mr. Meyers."
"Don't call me that. Just Martin. Can I call you Lauren?"
"Of course!" she beamed, practically bouncing.
"Here's a suggestion," he said. "You're beautiful, but the extra weight hides it. Try fitness in college. You'll love the feeling, and soon you'll see how stunning you can be."
Her eyes dimmed when he called her fat, but his next words lit them up. She stared at his handsome face—a face she'd only seen in dreams. Martin Meyers called me beautiful!
Then, impulsively, she did the unthinkable: she stood on her tiptoes and pecked his cheek. Stunned at herself, she thought, Who am I? Where am I? Did I just do that? Am I insane?
Martin, surprised, touched his cheek and grinned. "I'll take that as my reward. Usually, I'm the one making the first move."
"You're not mad?" she asked, anxious.
"Why would I be? A kiss from a beautiful girl is an honor."
Her eyes sparkled like stars. "You really think I'm beautiful?"
"Of course. I'm Martin Meyers, the world's top aesthetic expert," he boasted shamelessly.
In that moment, Lauren decided: Tomorrow, I start losing weight and getting fit.
Martin glanced at his watch, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. "It's getting late. Here's my card. If you have fitness questions, call me—I'm a pro."
"Really? I can call you?" she asked, uncertain.
"Absolutely," he confirmed with a smile. "That's my personal number. Don't share it."
"I won't, Martin, I swear!" She clutched the card to her chest, beaming.
Today was her lucky day.
Driving back to her family's suburban ranch, Lauren stopped every few miles to check the card, ensuring it was still there before continuing. Finally home, her father glanced at the darkening sky. "Why so late?"
"Traffic," she lied, grinning.
"Traffic? The highway to our ranch never gets jammed. What happened?" he asked, puzzled.
"Uh, there was an accident."
"An accident? God bless."
"Dad, about those pigs we delivered—can we keep one as a pet instead of slaughtering it?"
"A pet pig? You should get a dog or a cat."
"Dad, I want that pig."
Her pouty charm won. "Fine, which one? I'll keep it for you."