Young Mrs Hastings Just Wants to Eat

The Hastings Group was not merely a conglomerate; it was a centuries-old empire that quietly controlled the vast majority of the nation’s wealth across every major sector. But behind the unfathomable fortune lay a silent, persistent tragedy. ​For generations, the Hastings family tree had been withered by a rare, hereditary curse, a mysterious affliction paired with widespread infertility. The family rarely produced more than a single child per generation, and those who inherited the name usually succumbed to the illness before their forties. Those who managed to survive past fifty were even rarer, and almost always died the moment a new heir was born. The sole survivors were always the ones who passed the baton of wealth down with a grim warning: Marry young, produce an heir, and safeguard the bloodline until the next generation takes over. ​When Liam was born, he became the ultimate, fragile hope, the last remaining direct descendant of the Hastings bloodline. ​His birth was born of scandal and sorrow. His mother, Clara, had fallen pregnant at just eighteen. Her father, the stern patriarch George Hastings, scoured the nation for the man responsible, but came up empty-handed. Tragedy struck when Clara died during childbirth. Having already lost his own wife in childbirth eighteen years prior, George became the longest-surviving patriarch in family history. Determined not to let anyone manipulate the last surviving heir, George raised Liam himself under an iron curtain. No outsiders were permitted close enough to exert any influence. ​Liam was raised in a golden cage. Polished, cultured, and relentlessly groomed from infancy to command an empire, he had no true childhood, only carefully vetted "friends" chosen by his grandfather and a life engineered for absolute perfection. ​By the time Liam turned thirteen, George began arranging his marriage, desperate for him to marry early and secure the next generation. At first, a teenage Liam was flattered by the sudden flood of beautiful, high-society maidens. But the novel appeal faded quickly into total cynicism. Every single girl who looked at him saw the Hastings bank account before they saw the human being. He developed a deep, quiet disgust for opportunistic gold-diggers. ​The only exception, or so it seemed, was Vivian Balsky. ​Having grown up alongside him, Vivian spent years publicly parading herself as his official girlfriend. Liam, too disinterested to bother publicly denying her claims, simply let her play the part. It was a calculated convenience: keeping Vivian around kept his grandfather from forcing other arranged blind dates on him, and Vivian’s sharp social claws effectively kept other power-hungry socialites at bay. To George Hastings, Vivian Balsky wasn’t just a friend’s child, she was the ultimate insurance policy. The moment the old man sensed his young grandson might have a soft spot for the girl, he effectively took over her life. He bankrolled her upbringing, showered her with gifts far beyond what any child needed, and ensured she spent more time running around the Hastings estate than her own home. In George’s mind and in Vivian’s, she was already the future Lady Hastings. All that remained was the formal ceremony. ​For a time, even Liam tried to force himself to believe it. It was simple, expected, and kept his grandfather happy. ​But as the years crept on, something shifted. Vivian began to feel... wrong. Liam couldn't pinpoint the exact flaw, but every time he looked at her, he felt an instinctive recoil rather than affection. Eventually, over his grandfather's fierce objections, Liam manufactured a reason to pack Vivian’s bags and send her back to her own family. Even so, she returned to the estate so regularly she practically still lived there, completely convinced of her future title. ​Whenever Liam tried to bring up calling off the unwritten arrangement, George shut him down instantly. To the patriarch, bloodline, legacy, and tradition vastly outweighed his grandson's fleeting personal feelings. ​George’s desperation had peaked when Liam turned sixteen. The old man tried to force an immediate engagement with Vivian, determined to speed up the next generation. But Liam proved far more dangerous than George anticipated. The sixteen-year-old absconded from the estate for a full week, issuing a stark ultimatum: if his grandfather tried to force a marriage, he would end his life and take the Hastings bloodline to the grave with him. ​Terrified by the threat, George backed off a little. Granting Liam the right to choose his own bride, but the old man’s anxiety only festered. ​The curse's deadline was a ticking clock in George's mind, and his rebellious grandson showed zero inclination to settle down. By the time Liam turned eighteen, George’s patience had evaporated entirely. Desperate to see an heir secured before his own time ran out, the patriarch abandoned his promise and began drowning Liam in a relentless stream of high-society bachelorettes. *** Maya Rowan was three months away from turning nineteen. An orphan with zero safety net, she scraped by as a small-time food blogger, filming every meal on a cracked, cheap mobile device. She was perpetually broke, constantly calculating how many days she could stretch a single loaf of bread, yet she remained the most stubbornly optimistic person in any room. Blunt to the point of social suicide, Maya loved food the way normal people loved oxygen, mostly because genuine, high-quality meals had been a rare luxury her entire life. She never pretended to be anything she wasn't. ​She had absolutely zero business being at the Balsky family's lavish banquet. She wasn't on the guest list, but Maya was nothing if not resourceful. Snagging a one-night gig as temporary venue decor staff, she slipped into a service bathroom, swapped her work clothes for the single decent dress she owned, and walked into the grand ballroom like she owned the place. ​Vivian Balsky’s twentieth birthday was less a celebration and more a carefully staged public trap. The Balskys had rented out the grand ballroom of the Hitch & Knights Hotel, because of their close connection to the Hastings, inviting politicians, business tycoons, and even celebrities in the country was easy. Their goal was simple: tired of waiting for Liam to seal the deal, they planned to orchestrate a public spectacle so massive that Liam would have no graceful way to deny Vivian without destroying his families' reputations. ​Liam had refused to go, but George forced his hand with his favorite leverage: threatening to strip his inheritance. The threat didn't actually scare Liam, he had his own businesses, had headed companies since he was seven. He has his own fortune saved up and can live well without the Hastings massive wealth, he knew his value, but showing up for twenty minutes to end things cleanly with Vivian was far easier than enduring another three-hour lecture from his grandfather. ​He arrived in a simple, deliberately understated three-piece suit, blending effortlessly into the background. For the first ten minutes, no one recognized the sole heir to the country's largest fortune. Liam drifted aimlessly through the grand ballroom, expertly dodging Vivian’s attempts to attach herself to his arm. She knew better than to crowd him publicly, letting him wander while her eyes tracked his every move across the room. To the vast majority of attendees who had never seen his face in person, Liam was merely another well-dressed stranger in a sea of elite guests, exactly how he wanted it. ​His gaze swept lazily over the crowd until it caught on the farthest corner of the hall. ​Half-hidden behind a towering floral arrangement sat a young woman in a dress that was noticeably cheap among the sea of designer gowns. She was completely isolated, devouring a loaded plate with ferocious, unfiltered focus. She photographed every single angle of the dish, whispered notes into her small, battered mobile device, and then dove back in as though the concept of high-society restraint had never been explained to her. ​At first, Liam found it utterly appalling. But as he stood there, watching the genuine delight on her face with every bite, his own mouth inexplicably began to salivate. ​Someone brushed past him and pressed a glass of wine into his hand. Liam didn't even bother registering who it was; his feet were already moving toward the back corner. ​“I don’t expect to find someone with a large appetite in a place like this,” he said, leaning casually over the empty chair opposite her. ​Maya didn’t look up immediately. She had picked this secluded table with extreme precision, and the high-end catering had been carefully smuggled straight from the kitchen doors. She was mid-chew when the smooth, low voice registered. Slowly, she raised her head to meet a pair of strikingly handsome, incredibly judgmental eyes. ​“Well,” she said, her cheek still puffed out as she chewed, “I thought food was meant for eating. Whether my appetite is big or small is really no concern of yours.” ​“True,” Liam countered, resting a hand on the back of the chair. “But in a place like this, don't you think it's a bit rude to start gorging yourself before the host has even made their toast?” ​“No,” Maya responded without missing a beat. “The food was prepared so people could enjoy it. Personally, I think I’m doing the caterers a massive favor. Otherwise, with such an abundance, one imagines a great deal of it would simply go to waste by the end of the day.” ​A small vein threatened to pulse at Liam’s temple. People did not talk back to him. Ever. ​“I’m not sure about their waste policy,” he said coldly, “but I am certain that anyone actually on the guest list wouldn't start clearing plates before the main event.” ​Maya’s nose flared slightly. “So? What’s your point?” ​“My point? If I call the celebrant over right now, do you really think they’d let you get away without paying for everything you’ve consumed?” ​“Forgive me,” she sneered softly. “I didn’t realize I was speaking to the official Food Police. Even if you do know the birthday girl, so what? She'd probably thank me for clearing this plate. It would’ve gone straight into the garbage otherwise.” ​Liam leaned down slightly, a dangerous spark in his eyes. “Do you want to bet on that, miss?” ​Maya stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. Betting wasn't a concept that existed in her world, you needed disposable cash to gamble, and she barely had enough to cover rent. ​“Only pompous rich kids throw around bets over dinner. I’ll pass,” she said flatly. “And I kindly request that you leave me alone to finish my meal. Last I checked, I didn’t invite you to my table. So why are we even arguing over when or how I eat?” ​Liam froze. Arguing? ​To him, he was simply engaging in a witty, albeit sharp, conversation. He had certainly never been dismissed so rudely in his entire life. A surge of pure irritation flared in his chest. Needing a quick outlet, he raised the glass in his hand and downed the entire contents of the wine in one hard swallow. ​He set the empty crystal glass down on her table with a sharp clink, turned on his heel, and sauntered away into the crowd.