I Fed Him 1,036 Dishes，He Called Me a Stalker

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. He swallowed an entire bottle of pills. Twice after that, I found him with a blade against his wrist. So I became his tongue. “The Golden Chef Award only comes around every three years,I’ll be standing right there when you take that stage.” After that, I never stopped eating. Whenever Julian needed a dish tested, I opened my mouth. It didn't matter how full I was or how sick I felt. I tasted everything. Six years. One thousand and thirty-six dishes. I went from 110 pounds to 220, and my stomach never recovered. Then Julian finally won the Golden Chef Award winner. I ran into the venue in my wedding dress, expecting to marry the man I had spent six years helping save. Instead, I found him onstage holding Camille Vance's hand. “Tonight isn't just a win for me,” Julian told the room as cameras flashed. “I owe half of this to Camille. She's the one who's tested every dish.” Their fingers laced together under the lights. For one second, the man on that stage blurred into the man I had dragged to the ER at three in the morning with blood on his wrists and pills in his stomach. I pushed through the doors. “You said you'd marry me the day you won.” The room erupted. Someone laughed. “Didn't know Chef Cross had a taste for the heavier stuff.” “Two hundred pounds, easy. That appetite could feed an army.” Julian said nothing. Camille looked me over. “Half-ton lady,” she said sweetly, “is your brain buried under all that fat? Maybe see a doctor before you start daydreaming out loud.” I sucked in my stomach. The dress cut into my skin. I looked at Julian. He took one small step away from me. Then I saw it. Disgust. Two months ago, he had introduced me to Camille as a food writer who wanted an interview. She had reached out after Julian made the Ember Crown semifinals. I had even asked him once if I could start dieting after the competition. He'd fed me another oily bite. “I love you exactly like this,” he'd said. “You don't need to lose a pound. I'll never forget what you did for me.” Then he'd slipped a ring onto my finger. He'd resized it more times than I could count. “Ceremony this morning,” he'd told me. “License this afternoon.” I'd believed him. I'd eaten a full table of dishes that morning without complaint. Now I looked down at the wedding dress he'd sketched himself, altered a dozen times to fit me. It looked ridiculous. “Julian.” I stepped closer. “Say it. Say who's been testing your food for the last six years.” His jaw tightened. “Camille. Obviously.” Camille dropped a thick notebook at my feet. “Six years ago, when Julian lost his sense of taste, I was the one beside him. I wrote every recipe in here myself.” The pages opened. I knew that handwriting. Because it was mine. Someone had copied every word. Page eight. Boiled fish. Sixty-five tests. Capsaicin burned through my stomach lining. Emergency surgery. Page ninety-five. A wild-mushroom molecular dish. A toxic reaction so severe that my heart stopped for six seconds. And now I could barely walk two blocks without stopping. I stumbled backward. Someone's foot caught mine. I hit the floor. The seam of my dress tore. I grabbed my phone. “Look. It's me. I'm in every picture. I'm the one who's been beside him.” Camille laughed. “You're claiming to be the woman in those photos?” The reporters laughed with her. I looked at the screen. She was right. Six years and 110 pounds had changed my face, my body, everything. I barely recognized myself. Julian finally came down from the stage. He helped me up and covered my torn dress with his jacket. Then he leaned close. “Go home,Stop embarrassing yourself.” “I don't need a fat woman testing my food anymore. Camille's the better choice.”