Emily: [to Andy] You sold your soul to the devil when you put on your first pair of Jimmy Choos, I saw it.
—line from The Devil Wears Prada
1. An EDible Woman
You can’t go wrong with the red book. It doesn’t command, it doesn’t threaten. It only suggests. You can choose not to listen, but if you don’t listen, you will fail, and failure means you won’t be liked, won’t be recognized, won’t be retained. Ed knows that. So does the cake.
Ed loves cake. Cake must follow the rules. Cake must be ideal—never too big, never too heavy. Firm but delicate, structured but soft. Cake must be perfect, or cake is nothing at all. Ed does not eat cake. Ed does not need to eat cake. Ed only needs to watch cake, weigh cake, evaluate cake, measure its worth in grams and millimeters.
Cake learns. Cake reads the red book. Cake memorizes the steps. Cake internalizes the expectations. Cake knows what it must become. Cake stands on the scale. Holds its breath. Prays for a lower number. Ed glances at the display. Cake hopes.
Cake tames itself. Egg whites beaten into submission, not too loose—collapse, not too stiff—failure. Cake understands. Cake holds its form. Cake does not expand beyond its mold. Cake resists hunger. The oven is set at 180 degrees. Not 179. Not 181. Precision is key. Cake smells itself in the air. Cake must resist. Cake must not be tempted. Ed watches through the glass, making sure it does not stray.
Cake hides itself. Frosting—one layer, two layers, three. The first, too thin. The second, uneven. The third, smooth enough, thick enough. Frosting conceals. Frosting corrects. Frosting is a second skin. Cake looks perfect. But Cake is not satisfied.
Cake sees its flaws. Uneven edges. Tiny air bubbles. A tilt too slight to measure, but visible nonetheless. This is not Ed’s fault. This is not the red book’s fault. This is Cake’s fault. Cake begins to fix itself.
Cake licks its own frosting. Too thick. Too heavy. Cake trims itself down. One bite. Another. Just a little. Just to adjust. Just to be right. The inside—too soft, too porous, too much. Cake removes the excess. Ed watches. Does not interfere. Cake is improving.
Cake keeps going. Devours its edges, its layers, its center. Until all imperfections are gone. Until all excess is erased. Until nothing remains but a clean, empty plate. Cake has finally reached its goal. Zero grams. Zero calories. Zero existence.
Ed opens the red book. And whispers, “Tomorrow, another recipe.”
2.“It’s your freedom—now what do you do?”
Have you ever dreamt of a better version of yourself? Leaner, lighter, more disciplined. One single scroll unlocks the formula, rewires your perception, reshapes your desires. This is the Red Book.
You are the mold. The recipe begins with you. The measurements, the calculations, the adjustments—they are yours to follow. A fraction less, a gram lighter, a step closer to perfection. The Red Book does not command. It only guides. It only suggests. You choose. But if you choose wrong, you will fail. And failure is not an option.
The rules are simple. Less is always better. Hunger is progress. Emptiness is virtue. The Red Book provides the method. The Red Book holds the proof. The one and only thing not to forget: You. Must. Obey. You can’t escape the algorithm.
3.#WhatIEatInADay
The light in the kitchen sputters, a dying thing. Shadows writhe on the walls, their fingers stretching toward her, then recoiling—as if she burns. The red book lies open on the counter, its pages a wound. It watches. It waits.
She stands at the sink, shoulders hunched like wings clipped. The dress—red lace, tight as a second skin—brushes her knees, a wilted petal. Birthday, the word sits in her mouth, sour. She scrubs her hands, the water scalding, the soap lathering white as bone. She washes and washes. The dirt never leaves.
The cake glistens under the flicker-light. Sponge, cream, a slick of jam bleeding between the layers. The air is syrup-thick. Her stomach knots. Not hunger. Never hunger.
The knife is cold in her grip. The first cut: a surgeon’s precision. The second: excavation. The third: reduction. She lifts a sliver to the light. Translucent. Perfect. She will not eat it. She will earn it.
Her fingers skim the dress’s ribs—stitched bones, a cage. The fabric does not give. It was never meant to. It demands. She obeys.
This is how it happens. Not with a scream. Not with a fall. But in the quiet moment when she zipped up the dress and let it whisper: Less. Less. Less.
Her reflection is a blade—cheeks hollow, lips bloodless. She smiles. She stands. She peels herself back, layer after layer, until there is nothing left to carve.
The cake is gone. Only the jam remains, dark as a bruise, as a secret. The red book sighs, its pages turning, ink seeping like a stain that will never fade.
You traded your soul long ago. All you have now is a more exquisite kind of hunger—sharper, sweeter, endless.