My Chef Husband Refused to Cook for Me but Fed My Student Chapter 01

My Chef Husband Refused to Cook for Me but Fed My Student Chapter 01

Renner Thorne was a world-famous chef. He never cooked a single thing in our house, though.

He said he couldn’t stand cooking fumes lingering around our home.

The night before my thirtieth birthday, I whispered a wish to myself.

“I hope I’ll wake up to a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup—Renner made just for me.”

Renner just smiled. He didn’t say a word.

I woke up early the next morning. His side of the bed was empty. The stovetop sat cold and dead in the kitchen.

I dialed his number. He picked up mid-drive.

“Making noodles is way too much trouble. Just order takeout.”

I froze solid right there in the living room.

My surgery alarm blared seconds later, yanking me back to reality.

I packed up the raw noodles I’d laid out the night before and bolted out the door.

I worked three nonstop surgeries, wrapping up at two in the afternoon.

My stomach seized up in a brutal cramp.

Liora Meeks, my junior resident, grabbed my arm and pressed a salted caramel shortbread wedge into my palm.

I bit into it, rich buttery sweetness flooding my tongue.

“This is insane,” I said. “Where’d you grab these?”

Liora took a tiny bite and wrinkled her nose.

“These are Renner’s signature treats. Every staff member on our floor got a box this morning.”

“They got stale sitting around since first thing this morning. Nothing beats ’em fresh out the oven. No surprise you couldn’t taste what they were.”

A bitter taste coated my mouth instantly.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t tell what I ate. I’d never gotten to try one at all.

Back in my office, I called the hospital admin.

“Send over my transfer papers for the Military Treatment Facility. I’ll sign ’em now.”

…

The admin sounded confused over the line.

“I thought you were gonna marry Renner once this slow stretch hit.”

A hollow little huff escaped me.

“We’re calling it off.”

The words hung thick, and even I flinched for half a second.

Once, I’d wasted every slow night shift flipping wedding catalogs, folded the corners of every dress I adored. I’d even spent three days obsessing over invitation wax seals.

Now I could call the whole engagement off, not a single tremor in my voice.

I waited for a brutal, piercing ache in my chest.

It never came.

All I felt was exhaustion, sunk deep into my bones.

The admin didn’t push for details.

“Grab your belongings, then. Military transport’s coming to get you bright and early tomorrow.”

I hailed a cab home, hesitating ages before pulling up my locked social feed—I’d hidden it six months ago.

Liora had posted a photo dump.

Slow-braised short ribs, salted caramel shortbread wedges, herb meatball ragout, pan-seared meatballs—every dish styled perfectly.

The last photo showed Renner tossing sauce at our home kitchen counter.

Her caption read: So lucky Renner cooks for me five days a week. I swear I’ve packed on pounds!

Coworkers blew up the comments instantly.

Coworker A: [Renner spoils you rotten!]

Coworker B: [You’ve got a Michelin chef feeding you nonstop—total dream!]

Liora replied with a shy emoji: [All thanks to my attending.]

Then Renner left a short sentence.

Renner: [Anything you like, I’ll make.]

My thumb froze hovering over that line, glued to the screen.

Renner never let anyone hang around his cooking space when he prepped food. Seven years together, and I’d never stepped foot in his kitchen once.

But Liora?

She caught every single shot of him cooking. She even got to bite the pastries hot straight out of the oven.

I’d never tasted his baked goods a single time, but Liora could spot stale shortbread instantly.

My stomach ached, empty and burning raw.

I tapped into Renner’s profile. His bio stared back at me.

It read: [I handed treats to the whole world, only to save one just for you.]

That explained why every person on Liora’s floor walked away with a box of his handmade pastries.

Streetlights blurred past the taxi window, tears clouding my vision.

Seven years.

Seven whole years. Not once did he cook a meal for me.

His excuses never shifted.

“I don’t wanna smell cooking fumes once I walk through that door.”

“I breathe fumes all day at the upscale farm-to-table fine dining bistro—you wanna force me to put up with more of that mess at home?”

“You know how to cook. Can’t you whip something up yourself?”

Renner hated the fumes so bad he banned me from even turning on our stovetop.

I survived seven years on nothing but takeout, and it wrecked my stomach.

Liora had only worked here six months.

And our stovetop stayed fired up five days out of seven, all for her.

I clutched my cramping gut and leaned against the taxi window, tears streaming down my face nonstop.

I got home at nine PM sharp.

I pushed the front door open. Renner was spread out on our bed glued to his game, his phone tilted sideways. His thumbs flew nonstop over the screen.

The kitchen light stayed off. The stovetop sat cold, untouched.

I kicked off my shoes and lingered in the bedroom doorway for a beat.

He didn’t glance up at all.

My stomach twisted again, sharp and throbbing. I spoke quiet enough he couldn’t miss it.

“Where’s my chicken noodle soup?”

A loud death scream blared from his game speaker a second later. His character died.

Renner’s brows slammed together, his tone full of irritation as he lifted his head.

“I’ve told you a hundred times I hate cooking at home. Wishing for that’s just forcing me to do something I hate.”

His eyes darted right back to the screen. He tapped fast to tweak his loadout while waiting to respawn.

My gaze dragged across the dining room, landing on the built-in oven in the kitchen corner.

A thin layer of shortbread crumbs still dusted the baking tray inside.

I pulled a flat, bitter smile, my voice empty and calm.

“I had a salted caramel shortbread wedge today. It was amazing. Liora gave it to me.”

Renner’s character finished respawning, but his hands froze mid-air above the screen.

He lifted his head, his brows crinkled like I’d lost my mind.

“You’re that starved for sugar you gotta steal snacks from someone half your age?”