The Villains Must Win-Chapter 149: Reid Graves 29

Reid had a plan.

A quiet, subtle, incredibly well-researched plan.

It started with cheesecake. Then garlic knots. Then Tabitha’s favorite "emotional support lasagna" (yes, the very one that nearly got her banned from the cafeteria for dramatic weeping over an empty tray in freshman year).

He even had data to back it up. A detailed chart on her calorie preferences, stress-triggered snack cravings, and a highly classified "Emergency Cinnamon Roll Protocol" he activated whenever she looked too toned for his emotional stability.

Because here’s the thing.

Reid—genius, former menace to society, now reformed FBI consultant with more degrees than a thermometer—had one weakness.

Too many people were ogling his fiancée.

And he hated it.

It wasn’t just the compliments. It was the DMs. The photographers who "just happened" to linger too long. The tech billionaires who smiled too wide when Tabitha entered the room.

He wanted his squishy, cozy, crime-fighting snack gremlin back.

Tabitha, of course, noticed the sabotage.

"Reid," she said, eyebrow arched as he presented a tray of triple-chocolate brownies with an expression of faux innocence, "you do remember I work in the modeling industry, right?"

He blinked. "And?"

"And I need to fit into my wedding gown."

He set the tray down with a dramatic sigh and replied, "Tabby, you’re marrying me. I’m already rich we could fund three generations of luxury and still have enough left to buy a moon."

She crossed her arms.

"I’ve got degrees in tech, chemistry, bioengineering, applied physics, and somehow—don’t ask me how—culinary arts, just to understand your food moods. I once made a startup for detecting sarcasm in cat meows. Sold it in two weeks for nine figures."

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a mischievous murmur.

"I could predict winning lottery numbers. I could launch a virus worth billions just to crash a cryptocurrency for fun. Money means nothing. I could’ve been anything—tech mogul, medical prodigy, world-dominating villain . . ."

"And yet . . ." she drawled, already smiling.

"And yet," he continued, smirking, "I chose to wear a suit that smells like coffee and gunpowder, solving crimes for underpaid government workers, just so I could live in a world where you exist and keep you safe."

Tabitha groaned, flustered. "You can’t keep saying ridiculous things in that hot voice while handing me baked goods. It’s emotional warfare."

"I’m emotionally strategic," he corrected. "Big difference."

She picked up a brownie, eyeing it suspiciously. "You’re trying to chub me back up so people stop thirsting after me, aren’t you?"

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he shrugged. "Look, I miss hugging you like a human marshmallow. Now you’ve got these sharp model angles. My chin once hit your collarbone and I swear I got a papercut."

Tabitha threw a pillow at him.

"I still love you," he added, dodging with Olympic finesse. "Even if you turn into a glamazon alien queen with abs. But if you happened to fall face-first into this carbonara . . . I wouldn’t complain."

She rolled her eyes, but she was laughing, and he knew he’d won that round.

And the irony? The same boy who was once suspected of being the serial genius killer—who’d created a rogue AI that nearly crashed global banking systems and kidnapping women who look like Gwendolyn—was now the leading mind in stopping the very criminals he used to out-code in his sleep.

The villain became the hero.

And Tabitha? She might not have been the same chubby, lasagna-fueled firecracker Reid first fell for—but she was still his. Through every version, every glow-up, every photoshoot and fashion week—she was still the girl who once screamed over a cockroach loud enough to summon three RAs and an exorcist.

So really, what was a few extra calories between soulmates?

Newsflash: Tabitha got married in her full chubby glory.

Because guess what? Reid won.

Operation "Return of the Marshmallow Queen" was a glorious success. With the precision of a military strategist and the emotional manipulation of a rom-com villain, Reid had slowly lured Tabitha back into the soft, snack-powered arms of her former self.

Not that she minded. Honestly, resisting Reid when he presented croissants like sacred offerings and whispered sweet nothings like, "You’re hotter than a fresh tray of garlic bread," was futile.

And anyway—what did she need abs for?

She was rich now. Filthy, ludicrously, unhingedly rich. Reid had seen to that. At some point in between solving serial murders, predicting economic collapses, and casually curing two rare diseases on a Tuesday, he’d quietly built an empire.

A real empire. Not "a nice house and a Tesla" rich.

More like "bought four islands and renamed them after Tabitha’s childhood pets" rich.

And he was whipped—aggressively, unapologetically whipped. If she so much as glanced at something in a store window, Reid was already inputting his retinal scan to transfer funds. It got so ridiculous that Tabitha stopped pointing at things altogether because he’d once bought an entire boutique after she blinked too long at a purse.

She tried telling him, "Babe, this is getting excessive."

To which he responded, "Excessive? I once built a weather satellite just to make sure our vacation didn’t get rained on."

Still, Tabitha wasn’t complaining. Her modeling agency adored her new full-figured fabulousness and practically begged her to headline their plus-size line. She ate what she wanted, lived in a spa-like mansion, and occasionally did slow-motion cannonballs into their indoor hot tub just because she could.

Life was good. freewēbnoveℓ.com

Until it wasn’t.

It happened on what she thought was just another blissfully lazy day at the spa.

She had snacks in one hand, a mango mask on her face, and cucumber slices perched on her eyes like chic, vegetable goggles.

And then—bam.

A cloth over her mouth. A bitter smell. Darkness.

The next thing she knew, Tabitha was awake—but not home. She sat in a cramped, windowless container, the only light source a single flickering bulb swaying dramatically from the ceiling like it watched too many crime dramas.

"W-what . . ." she croaked, groggy, confused. "What’s going on?"