I Can't Eat, so He Feeds Someone Else

Three years into my battle with anorexia, my husband, Nikolai Hollowell, was the only person who refused to stop caring about whether I ate.

Even when I threw up until my whole body trembled, he would make me something new half an hour later and coax me, gently yet firmly, "Have one more bite of the apple, Emi."

Yet, just the smell of it sent me spiraling into another fit of vomiting.

That night, I posted another plea for help on X. "How am I supposed to survive anorexia?"

The top comment read, "Get yourself a boyfriend who's a chef! My husband changes up the menu every single day of the year, and even the apples he slices for me are always shaped like little bunnies. I've basically fallen in love with food because of him!"

A netizen gushed, "Whoa! Where do you even find a gem like that?"

The first netizen replied, "Find one? Please. Gems like him are never single. His wife has had anorexia for three years and is skin and bones now. He told me he can't even stand looking at her, much less sleep with her. Unlike her, I devour all the meals he cooks for me!"

My breath hitched. Nikolai had sliced me bunny-shaped apples just this morning.

My fingertips went cold as I tapped into the young woman's profile.

"Wow, bunny-shaped apples. If your wife won't eat them, I will!" Attached was a photo of a man's long, elegant fingers holding an apple to the young woman's lips. Reflected in her starry eyes was a face disturbingly similar to Nikolai's.

…

My phone hit the floor with a muffled thud. I didn't pick it up. If anything, I was rooted to the spot, listening to my own heartbeat, feeling as though it were being squeezed by a hand and dragged downward.

I told myself it couldn't possibly be him. Nikolai would never do that to me. I had known him for seven whole years.

He was the one who stayed on the phone with me for three hours on the night I broke down because my family opposed our relationship. He was the one who severed ties with his entire family just to marry me. And he was the person who never once left the entrance to my ward the night my anorexia was at its worst, when I had vomited until I passed out from exhaustion and was rushed to the hospital.

Back then, his mother, Celine Mercer, had used such filthy tactics; she had hired people to corner me, gag me, and lock me in an abandoned warehouse for two whole days to make me understand that I wasn't worthy of him.

From then on, the moment I caught certain scents, I would start to feel nauseated. I began to throw up, and I became afraid to eat.

Nikolai was the one who found me. He had held me close and swore I'd be the only woman he would ever love.

Following that incident, he severed ties with his family and moved in with me. He canceled most of his networking events for me, learned how to cook, and spent countless hours figuring out the kinds of food I could stomach.

A man like him… wouldn't cheat on me.

I bent down and picked up my phone. The screen was still intact, and the post was still open.

My hands were shaking, but I clicked on it anyway.

Three days ago, Nikolai had told me he was going to a church to kneel before the altar and pray for God to bless my recovery from anorexia. Yet, the young lady's post wrote, "He told me he spent the whole night praying at church, just to light a unity candle with me."

The attached photo showed two hands clasped tightly together, fingers intertwined. And around the man's wrist was the rosary bracelet I had braided for him myself.

Half a month ago, Nikolai had told me that his company was developing new recipes. He had stayed up all night in the kitchen and brought back a bowl of fish soup simmered to a milky white, coaxing me into taking a single sip.

The young woman had posted, "I casually mentioned in the middle of the night that I was craving fish soup, and the great CEO himself rolled up his sleeves and spent the entire night in the kitchen stewing it for me. He then complained that his wife threw up the second she smelled it. What a waste of good food!"

The blood in my body went cold.

A netizen in the young woman's comment section asked, "How much does that married man love you?"

The young woman responded, "How much? His wife has anorexia, so when he cooks at home, he never lets anyone know. He told me he's afraid the smell of cooking oil will trigger her. But when he cooks for me, he does it outside. He took me to a private dining suite under his name and explained that's his real home turf. His wife has no idea that place even exists."

All of a sudden, I remembered that three months ago, Nikolai had told me his private kitchen was being renovated and would no longer be open to the public; he asked me if I wanted to go see it.

I was in bad shape that day and had spent the whole morning throwing up, so I declined. To that, he had said he'd take me there when I felt better.

A netizen in the top comments wrote, "Hang in there, girl. His wife probably won't last much longer anyway."

"... won't last much longer…" I read that line three times over.

Just then, the sound of the digital lock turning echoed from the front door.

Nikolai was back. He took off his tailored overcoat, and the moment he noticed my pallid complexion, he rushed over in alarm. "Why do you look so pale, Emi? Are you feeling unwell again?"

The doorbell rang, and his hand froze in mid-air. Standing outside the door was a young woman wearing a goose-yellow puffer jacket. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the cold, brimming with life.

She was unmistakably the same starry-eyed woman from the photos. "Good evening, Mrs. Hollowell! I'm Estelle Moreau, Mr. Hollowell's assistant," she introduced herself sweetly. "I'm sorry for dropping by unannounced, but there's a document I forgot to ask him to sign."

In the past, I would have found a young lady like her adorable. However, as I drank her in—noticing the beauty mark on her wrist and the fleeting, unguarded look in her eyes when she glanced at Nikolai—a strong wave of nausea rose in me. I suppressed it, however, as I wanted to see what would happen next.

Clutching her folder, she asked softly, "Mr. Hollowell, can I… stay here and verify a few figures before I go? I won't intrude for long!"

Nikolai fell silent for a second before responding, "No, aside from my wife, no other woman is allowed in this house."

Disappointment instantly flashed in the young lady's eyes. Estelle looked like she had something to say, but he shot her such a fierce glare that she could only slink away.

The second the door clicked shut, I clearly saw Nikolai breathe a sigh of relief. He spun around, strode back to my side, and crouched down once more, grasping my ice-cold hands. "Don't mind her, Emi. She's new, and she doesn't know the rules. She's just trying to climb the ladder by delivering documents."

He lowered his head and devoutly kissed the tip of my fingers. "Don't worry. How could I possibly let another woman into our home and make you sick?"

Looking into his eyes, which were brimming with affection, I felt the storm in my stomach quiet down. Inch by inch, I withdrew my hand from his grasp and held his gaze. My voice was as light as a breeze, yet it also carried a chill that could tear everything apart as I asked, "Is that so? But she can eat the little bunny-shaped apples you slice?"