Chapter 4

The holding cell is small enough that the cot takes up half the room.

I lower myself onto it. The frame groans. My hips hang over both edges — metal biting into flesh every time I shift. The toilet's two feet from my head. No door. No curtain. Just that thick, sweet smell that makes my stomach clench tighter.

I stare at the water stain on the ceiling. And all I can think about is that attic.

That's where Julian locked himself in. The month after he lost his taste. No food. No sleep. Just a bowl of plain rice porridge a day to keep him alive. He dropped thirty pounds in two weeks. Hollow-eyed. Barely there.

Everyone told me to walk away. I decided to become his tongue instead.

His food was inedible at first. I forced it down, then ran to the bathroom and threw it back up. Every single time. I wrote down every failure in a notebook — what needed adjusting, what ingredient to swap, down to the smallest detail.

Slowly, his cooking became edible. Then restaurant-quality. By year four, he'd clawed back seventy percent of what he'd lost.

By then I'd gained enough weight to develop chronic gastritis. I started locking myself away too. Ashamed to be seen. Julian would drag me out bodily — shove me into real clothes, force me into the car. He'd glare down anyone on the street who stared too long.

"Josie," he told me once, driving nowhere in particular. "No matter what you look like, you're still the most beautiful thing in my world."

That was two months before Camille showed up.

Maybe from the second she appeared, something in him had already shifted. I just didn't want to see it.

Two people stop outside the cell door.

"That her? The one all over the trending page?"

"Yeah. Delusional stalker. Chased Julian Cross all the way into his trunk."

"Bet she's not just obsessed with him — she's obsessed with his cooking too. I mean, look at that body."

"Too bad. He's basically engaged to Camille Vance now. Only one he'll ever cook for again."

Their footsteps fade. I don't move.

The gastritis hits around 2 a.m.

A slow twist at first. Then the full spasm — the kind that curls me into a ball, knees drawn up, sweat running cold down my temples. I press my fist into my abdomen and breathe through my teeth. In. Out. In. Out. Waiting for the worst of it to pass.

No one comes. The fluorescent light above me buzzes and flickers. Never turns off.

A guard knocks at dawn. Hands me my phone. "Someone sent you something."

First thing that loads is a headline: Chef Julian Cross Announces Engagement to Camille Vance Tonight at the Bellhaven Hotel.

A text pops up right after.

[The engagement is just optics. The press won't back off, so I'm riding the momentum into the special. It buys the show a ratings bump.]

I don't reply.

[Holding you is the only way this works. Too many eyes on us right now.]

[If I'd let you walk that night, they'd have dug until they found us. This way it blows over clean.]

[Seven days, the special wraps, and I'll come get you myself. Sit tight. Don't do anything stupid.]

My thumb hovers over the screen.

I want to tell him the cot cuts into my sides. That the toilet has no door and the smell never fades. That I woke up shaking at 2 a.m. with my stomach in knots, pressing my fist into my own belly because there was no one to call. Nothing to take.

I want to tell him the Citrus Chili Shrimp recipe is sitting right here in my bag — and without it, he's going to fail on live television. That some weak, stupid part of me still wants to hand it over. Just to see him grateful one more time.

I want to tell him all of it.

I type back one word.

Okay.