Chapter 4

“You didn’t follow my instructions?”

I shook my head frantically. “Mom, that waist binder—it was too tight. I couldn’t breathe, so I took it off last night…”

Before I could finish explaining, she slapped me hard again.

Her eyes burned with anger. “You’re already refusing to listen to me? What will you do in the future?”

My mom had decided that I was going to be a “child cooking prodigy” on social media. And for that to work, I had to look the part—I had to stay small, young.

She grabbed a roll of bandages and began wrapping them tightly around my chest, layer after suffocating layer, as if she were trying to crush the life out of me.

When she was done, she stepped back, looking pleased with the flat result.

But then, as if noticing something else, she stood back and measured my height with her hand.

“No, no. This won’t do.”

She turned and started rummaging frantically through a drawer, eventually pulling out a syringe.

Her grin was sharp and menacing as she advanced toward me, backing me into a corner.

I sank to the floor, powerless.

I didn’t want to stop growing. I didn’t want to be trapped in the body of a child forever.

But my protests were useless. My eyes stared blankly as she plunged the growth inhibitor into my arm without hesitation.

Every day, I lived as “Anna’s Cooking Adventures,” the account my mom had created for me. My life revolved around kitchen grease and smoke, spending late nights in the kitchen perfecting recipes.

I had no freedom.

But my mom’s efforts weren’t in vain. My videos caused a sensation online, gaining more and more attention.

I became the “perfect child” everyone envied.

Comments flooded beneath each video:

“With a daughter like this, I could die happy!”

“Can we trade kids? I’ll take Anna!”

“Anna is officially my future daughter-in-law. Calling dibs now!”

“How dare you compete with me? Anna belongs to my family!”

As my popularity skyrocketed, a cooking competition show for kids reached out to my mom.

When she got the offer, she was ecstatic. She made several announcement videos thanking my fans.

“Anna’s going to be on a cooking show! Thank you all for your love and support!”

The comments rolled in like a tidal wave:

“What? My daughter is going to be on TV? Of course we’ll watch!”

“Which channel? I’ll tune in immediately!”

That year, I was fifteen. But I found myself standing among a group of eight- and nine-year-olds, competing against them as if I belonged.

The night before the show, my mom wasn’t taking any chances. She added even more layers of bandages around my chest and injected me with another round of growth inhibitors.

Under the watchful eyes of the audience, I stood out. Among the younger children, my skills and experience shone, and I advanced easily to the finals.

The show became a massive hit. The unique concept and drama captivated viewers, and soon, everyone was debating the final rankings.

My fans were relentless, clashing with the other contestants’ supporters online. But I had the largest following by far. To most people, my victory was already a foregone conclusion—the other kids were just there to fill the stage.

When the night of the finals arrived, I stood under the spotlight, with the audience cheering my name.

But during the most critical step of the competition, I lost control of the heat.

The dish burned.