Chapter 1

When the store assistant came back with her tablet, her pace had noticeably slowed.

"Mr. Nash, the reservation has been switched to Aiden Turner. But this suit was tailored to your unusually broad shoulders and narrow waist. It might not fit him at all."

She glanced at my razor-sharp jawline, hollowed out by extreme fat loss, and swallowed the rest of her sentence.

The suit on the fitting platform looked sharp and crisp.

To fit into it, I had spent the last half month eating nothing but boiled chicken breast, even cutting out water entirely over the final few days. My waist and shoulders had finally hit the brutal dimensions the designer demanded.

Yet today was the first time I realized those numbers weren't meant for me.

I opened the suit shop's digital order.

Every detail, from the ties and cufflinks to the lining, had Carly Stein's notes written all over it.

Only the groom himself was treated like a replaceable part.

"He's not trying it on. Cancel the primary suit."

The assistant blinked. "Custom pieces only have a refund of 30%. If you cancel now, you're out at least 2,600 dollars."

That money was what I'd saved for our wedding over two years.

My finger hovered over the confirmation button.

My phone buzzed. Carly's name overrode the cancellation screen.

"Why did you change the name on the reservation?"

So she'd finally noticed.

I stared at myself in the mirror, wearing just a shirt. Because of my chronically low body fat, every vein on the back of my hand stood out in stark relief.

"When are you getting here?" I asked.

The line went quiet for a second, followed by the sizzle of meat hitting an iron grill.

"I'm heading over after dropping Aiden off. Don't start messing with the orders just because of a picture. The suit isn't something for you to throw a tantrum over."

"The store closes in 40 minutes," I said calmly.

"Then push it to Sunday. I'll come try it on with you, okay?"

That promise made my finger ease up on the confirmation button.

Six years ago, I first passed out at the gym from low blood sugar, which was brought on by zero carbs and heavy squats.

Carly had rushed me to the hospital, running a red light on the way. She even yelled at me, insisting she'd monitor every single one of my diet and training plans from then on.

Back then, her control felt like a tight safety net.

I genuinely believed she cared more about my body than I did.

Through the phone, Aiden Turner's voice drifted over with a smile. "Carly, I've still got onions on my plate."

Carly made a noise of acknowledgment while covering the mouthpiece.

When she spoke again, her tone had turned impatient. "Danny, I'll be there Sunday. Just change the reservation back, and don't go eating random junk tonight. I packed you some boiled greens and pan-seared chicken breast."

The countdown timer on the cancellation screen had 20 seconds left.

"Did you write that note?" I asked.

She didn't answer right away.

"That was six years ago. How am I supposed to remember every little thing? If it bothers you that much, I'll delete it when I get back."

The fact that she was willing to delete the note and come back to try on the suit with me sounded like she was giving ground.

Yet on the other end, once the onions were picked out, Aiden asked her if they could order an extra plate of pork belly.

Carly said, "Go ahead if you can finish it."

She had never once said that to me.

Right before the cancellation countdown hit zero, I pressed confirm.

The notification for the 2,600-dollar loss popped up, which I ignored.

The assistant pulled back the fitting room curtain.

I took off the suit and handed it back to her. "Cancel Sunday's appointment, too."

I changed back into my workout gear and exported six years of body fat logs and diet histories.

The system generated 2,190 pages of files, each one annotated by Carly.

If my body fat went up by even 0.2%, Carly would increase my cardio.

If I ate one extra bite of beef at dinner, she'd call it a lack of discipline.

If I took even a sip of sports drink, she'd make me burn off the extra calories the next day.

The assistant handed me a piece of hard candy, worried I'd faint from low blood sugar.

I peeled off the wrapper. But instead of putting it in my mouth, I just clenched it in my palm until the sharp edges bit red into my skin.

Before I walked out of the shop, I got a text from Carly. "Don't eat the chicken breast yet. Weigh yourself the second you get home."

I deleted the reservation reinstatement request and kept only the 2,600-dollar cancellation receipt.