Chapter 1

My boyfriend of seven years is Julian Cross. The most celebrated chef of his generation.

Three months after we got together, he lost his sense of taste. Swallowed a whole bottle of pills. Twice after that, I found him with a blade against his wrist.

So I became his tongue.

"The Ember Crown only comes around every three years." I made him a promise. "I'll be standing right there with you when you take that stage."

After that, I never stopped eating. Whenever he needed a dish tested, I opened my mouth. Didn't matter how full I already was. Didn't matter if I was about to be sick.

Six years. One thousand and thirty-six dishes. I went from a hundred and ten pounds to two-twenty, and wrecked my stomach so bad it never came back right.

Every time I wanted to quit — every single time — I'd remember him in that attic. Thirty pounds gone in two weeks. Hollow-eyed. Barely breathing.

I'd bite down. Keep going.

Then the day he finally took the crown, I ran into the venue in my wedding dress — and found him holding Camille Vance's hand on the podium.

"Tonight isn't just a win for me," he tells the room, cameras going off like gunfire. "I owe half of it to Camille — she's the one who tested every dish."

Their fingers lace together under the lights. And for one second — just one — the man up there blurs into the one I dragged to the ER at 3 a.m. Wrists bleeding. Throat full of pills.

My hands curl into fists. I shove the doors open.

"You said you'd marry me the day you won."

The room erupts. Shutters cracking. Laughter — short, sharp, mean.

"Didn't know Chef Cross had a taste for the heavier stuff."

"Two hundred pounds easy. Appetite like that could feed an army."

Julian presses his lips together. Says nothing.

Camille looks straight at me instead.

"Half-ton lady — is your brain buried under all that fat? See a doctor before you go around daydreaming out loud."

I suck my stomach in on instinct. The dress digs into my flesh so deep I can't breathe.

I look up at Julian. He takes a small step back. And something like disgust flickers across his face.

The room laughs harder. "Vance never holds back, does she."

I go still.

Camille Vance. I remember her now. Two months ago, Julian made the semifinals with a fusion dish we built together — that's when she reached out. All wrapped up in concern for his depression. Offering to "collaborate."

"Some no-name food writer," he'd said at the time, eyes glued to the selfie she sent. "Probably just wants an interview while I'm making headlines."

I remember staring at her photos. Wishing I still had a waist like that. I asked him once — just once — if I could start dieting after the competition.

He blinked. Then fed me another oily bite.

"I love you exactly like this," he said, brushing my hair back. "You don't need to lose a single pound. I'll never forget what you did for me."

Then he slid a ring on my finger. One he'd resized more times than I could count.

"Ceremony this morning. License this afternoon."

I'd nodded. Happy. Ate a full table of dishes without a single complaint.

Now I look down at the wedding dress he sketched himself. Altered a dozen times to fit me.

Suddenly it looks like a joke.

"Julian." I step forward. "Say it. Say who's been testing your food all these years."

His jaw tightens. "Camille. Obviously."

Camille drops a thick notebook at my feet before I can get another word out. "Six years ago, when Julian lost his taste and stopped eating, I was the one by his side. Every page of this — I wrote it myself."

The pages flutter open. That's my notebook. My handwriting — except it isn't anymore. Someone copied every word. Different hand.

I stand there. Frozen. Memory hits like a wave.

Page eight. Sichuan boiled fish. I tested it sixty-five times. The capsaicin burned a hole clean through my stomach lining. ER. Emergency surgery.

Page ninety-five. Wild mushroom molecular dish. Toxic reaction so bad I flatlined for six seconds.

Page two-eighty-four. The braised spring bamboo chicken that won him tonight's gold. Ten pounds on me in a single month.

Ten pounds. Then ten more. And now I can barely walk two blocks without stopping to catch my breath.

I stumble backward. Someone's foot catches mine and I go down — hard. The seam at my waist rips open with a sound like tearing paper. Flesh spills over the torn fabric.

I scramble for my phone. Hands shaking. Pull up the photos.

"Look — it's me in every picture. I'm the one who's been beside him—"

Camille laughs. "You're claiming to be the woman in those photos? Sweetie. You two don't even look like the same species."

The reporters laugh with her. "Ma'am, are you feeling all right? That's clearly a different person."

I stare at the screen.

She's right. Six years and a hundred extra pounds have made me unrecognizable. Even to myself. Wrinkles creeping in at the corners of my eyes, stretched smooth again by the fat beneath them. Thirty-two years old. Two-twenty. Not the girl every boy in college used to chase.

Julian finally moves. Walks down from the stage. Helps me up. Drapes his jacket over my ripped dress.

His voice drops low enough that only I can hear.

"Go home. Stop embarrassing yourself. I don't need a fat woman testing my food anymore. Camille's the better choice."

Something quiet breaks inside my chest. Something final.