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I Fed Him 1,036 Dishes，He Called Me a Stalker
Novelix
Completed
Six years. 1,036 dishes. I destroyed my body to save his career — tasting every recipe he couldn't taste himself, gaining 110 pounds, ruining my stomach — because the night he lost his sense of taste, he swallowed a bottle of pills and I swore I'd never leave. The night he finally won, he held another woman's hand on the podium, called her his partner, stole my notebook, and had me arrested as a stalker. He forgot one thing: there are two notebooks. The second one — with every recipe he needs for his live TV special — is still in my bag. By the time he realizes, I'm 35,000 feet in the air, building an empire of my own.
Chapters (4)
第1章
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.
第2章
"Press is coming tomorrow. Camille's moving in."
Julian throws my stuff into boxes. Doesn't look at me once.
"Three years' rent, paid up front. Water, electric, everything covered. Two-bedroom, shops downstairs, you'll be fine."
He leans over to buckle my seatbelt — takes him three tries before the click catches. Adjusts the seat to where I like it. Lays the blanket over my knees, same as always.
This car. He emptied his savings for it back when I hit a hundred and eighty. Sold two watches because the old sedan's seat was too tight for me.
I used to complain about the heat — he cranked the AC until it ran like winter inside. I used to feel squeezed — he widened the passenger seat until it fit me like a glove.
"If you can't get thinner," he'd said once, hand on the gear shift, grinning at me, "I'll just keep buying bigger cars."
I come back from the memory and realize — we're not heading toward my apartment.
"Camille's got a cocktail party tonight," Julian says. Flat. Like he's reading off a schedule. "Swinging by to pick her up."
I go still. My fingers curl against my knee.
"You and her… it's really just publicity?"
"Of course." He doesn't even hesitate. "You're not useful anymore, but I still love you."
The words come out generous. Like he's handing me something I should be grateful for.
"If the press isn't around," I say, "can I come back and stay for a few days?"
He doesn't turn his head. "The apartment's forty miles out. Why would you drag yourself all that way in this heat?"
"It's not that far. Two hours on the subway."
Nothing.
He doesn't answer. Doesn't blink. Doesn't move.
I look up. He's already got his headphones on.
I say his name. Twice.
Nothing.
The car stops. Camille pulls the passenger door open herself.
"Josie — hop in back. The bags'll crush her dress if she sits in the rear."
I open my mouth. My throat feels stuffed with wet cotton.
I unbuckle the seatbelt. Give up the seat.
Camille takes a tissue out, wipes down the entire passenger side. Then pulls out a deodorizer spray. Sprays it twice. Three times. Only then does she sit.
My spine goes rigid.
"God, it's freezing." She hugs her arms. "Turn the AC down?"
Julian obeys. Instantly.
"There's a blanket back—"
"That'll wrinkle my dress." She curls her lip. "No."
"But I'm burning up."
Julian's eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Irritation. Clear as day.
"Then take something off."
Within minutes I'm down to a tank top. Sweat soaking through front and back. I can feel it pooling in the crease under my chest, sliding down my spine.
"What is that smell?" Camille presses her hand over her nose. "Julian — do you smell that?"
Something inside me clenches. Like a fist closing around my lungs.
Julian looks away from the mirror. Doesn't say a word. Just switches the AC to recirculate and clips an air freshener into the vent.
Ever since the weight came, the sweating never stopped. Every pore leaking something oily. Something sour. I shower three times a day and strangers still wrinkle their noses when I walk past them on the street.
Nina's the only one who ever leaned in close. Really close. Sniffed on purpose, taking her time about it.
"You smell fine, Josie. You smell like you."
But it doesn't matter anymore. The reflex set a long time ago. Someone twitches their nose near me — anyone, anywhere — and my lungs just lock. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stand there and wait for it to pass.
The car brakes hard. I slam into the seat in front of me.
"Paparazzi up ahead!" Julian's voice cracks. Full panic. "Josie — get in the back. Behind the third row. Now!"
第3章
Before I can react, Julian's hands are already on me.
He and Camille — both of them, together — shove me over the folded third-row seats into the cargo space. Boxes slam into my ribs. Garment bags crush in around my face. I curl my knees, try to twist sideways, and the cargo cover snaps shut overhead.
Dark. Pitch dark. The smell of dry-cleaning plastic and my own sweat and something metallic — my knee. Still bleeding from where it scraped the seat frame on the way over.
I can't straighten my legs. Can't roll over. Can't do anything except lie here and breathe through my mouth.
Outside, reporters swarm the car like flies.
"Where are you two headed this late, Chef Cross?"
"Camille's got a cocktail party." Julian's voice comes through muffled. Easy. Charming. Like I'm not crammed behind him like luggage. "Worried about her safety this late, so I'm driving her."
"You two have been together seven years now, haven't you? When's the wedding?"
A pause. I hear him swallow.
"We already booked our appointment." He holds up the confirmation page — I know exactly which one. I watched him fill it out two months ago. My name in the second slot. "Today just got eaten up by the competition. We'll go once things calm down."
Camille loops her arm through his. Kisses his cheek — loud enough that I hear it through the metal.
"Julian already picked out the dress and the rings!" She raises her left hand. A diamond catches the flashbulbs.
My stomach drops.
I know that ring. He forged it himself. Hammered and filed it by hand over three weekends, matching it to his own. One of a kind in the world. He told me so the night he slid it onto my finger.
Did he make her a new one? Or did he take mine back while I wasn't looking?
"All right everyone — Camille's party's starting. Let's save the rest for tomorrow."
The reporters scatter. Julian reaches for the wheel —
And my phone starts playing music. On its own. Loud. Bleeding through the cargo cover into the cabin.
I freeze. Look down. The Bluetooth icon blinks at me.
He'd been wearing his headphones the whole drive. Connected to my phone. My earbuds were muted.
My chest goes hollow.
He heard every word I said. The subway. The "can I come stay." The two times I called his name.
He heard all of it. He just didn't want to answer.
The cargo cover pops open. Light floods in.
"Isn't that the woman in the wedding dress from the awards ceremony? What's she doing back there?"
Julian points at me. Face twisted up like he's never seen me before in his life.
"You — you've got some nerve, sneaking into my car!"
"No — I didn't—"
He grabs my collar. Hauls me out. My knee hits the pavement again — same spot, same raw skin — and I feel it peel open fresh. I stumble up. The press closes in like a wall.
"Don't let her leave! Stalkers like this need a few nights behind bars!"
Julian's mouth opens. Closes. Camille grips his arm, nails digging in.
They walk me to the precinct. Camille and half the press pack in around the officer's desk. Everyone talking over each other. Embellishing. Inventing. Making it bigger than it was.
I try to explain. My voice comes out small. Shaky.
No one listens.
Julian stands off to the side. Jaw working. Finally he forces out — like it costs him something, like he's doing me a favor:
"Maybe… maybe we should let it go."
The officer doesn't look up. "Letting her off just encourages this kind of behavior."
"Chef Cross has that live special next week, doesn't he?" a reporter chimes in. "Half the industry's dying to try that Citrus Chili Shrimp from the semifinals. Let her sit here and think about what she's done."
Julian glances at me. One last chance. One last second where he could say something. Anything.
"Then… hold her."
He turns his back. Doesn't look at me again.
Citrus Chili Shrimp.
I remember it down to the gram. Not just because we built it together — but because it's on the first page of the second notebook.
Julian only took the first one. The other's still in my bag.
Without those notes — with his taste still gone — what exactly does he think he's going to cook on live television?
第4章
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.
