Chapter 1: The Foodie Dilemma

When my manager Rachel tried to hand me a new project, I slid the freshly signed contract across her glass desk with a little too much force. The paper snapped against the glass, echoing through her sleek downtown LA office.

“I’m joining a variety show. It’s live-streamed and pulls huge numbers,” I said, faking confidence, though my fingers nervously tapped against my jeans under the desk.

Rachel snatched up the contract, letting out an exasperated laugh as her manicured nails drummed on the page. “A food show? Natalie Harper, you’re making moves behind my back again!”

She shot me a glare. “Seriously, do you even know your body? You gain weight just breathing, and you want to go on a food show?” She threw her hands up, gold bracelets clinking, the sound sharp in the sunlight from her floor-to-ceiling windows.

She didn’t stop there. “Just last week, people online were trashing you for not managing your figure, and now you’re chasing another foodie gig!” Her voice bounced off the glass, making me shrink in my chair.

Her disappointment hit harder than I expected. Sure, as a new actress, I’d made a name for myself with decent roles and passable looks, but my metabolism was a traitor. My face was the first to betray me—one good meal, and by the weekend I’d be rocking full chipmunk cheeks. It’s like my cheeks have their own Snapchat filter—one day sharp, the next, full-on chipmunk.

I’d gotten used to my social feeds turning into battlegrounds. The trolls were relentless—posting unflattering screenshots, spinning tales that I bullied producers into photoshopping every frame. The rumors snowballed: one thread even claimed I had a full-time CGI team following me around.

The haters piled up. My Twitter mentions were a toxic wasteland I only braved with armor on.

Rachel pressed her fingers to her temples, her diamond studs glittering as she fought a headache. “When are you going to get this eating thing under control?”

Her words stung, and embarrassment burned in my chest. I flashed back to middle school—sitting in the cafeteria, classmates giggling as I reached for a second slice of pizza. ‘Big mouth, big stomach!’ they’d tease. I’d laugh along, but the shame stuck like gum under the table. Now, here I was, grown up and still fighting the same battle—this time in front of millions.

Trying to lighten the mood, I raised my hand like I was testifying. “I swear! After this show, I’ll go on a diet—pinky promise!”