Allergic to you

Leonie’s pov The eviction notice had been taped to my door for three days. I’d stopped looking at it. Instead, I stared at my laptop screen – at the same job posting I’d refreshed fifteen times that morning. Personal Chef – Private Estate. Salary: $180,000 plus room and board. Male applicants only. Medical condition. No exceptions. My finger hovered over the “Apply” button. I’d been a chef for six years. I graduated top of my class at Le Cordon Bleu. Trained under Michelin-starred monsters who made grown men cry. I worked eighty-hour weeks until my hands were raw and my back screamed. And none of it mattered. Because I am a woman. The restaurant world taught me that. People would say "You are too emotional to be a chef.". The kitchen is not for girls.". You will get married and quit so why should we hire you?" I heard all of that before but I proved them wrong. I made food and I worked hard. Proving them wrong did not pay my rent. My money was gone two months ago. That was when my moms hospital bills came. Then my landlord raised the rent. Then my car broke down. It seemed like the world was against me. I applied for eleven jobs. I was rejected eleven times. The last one was bad. I applied to be a chef for a family. I cooked for them. They liked my food.. Then the husband saw me and said "Is there a man we can talk to?" I did not cry in front of them. I cried when I got home. Now I saw this job posting. Male applicants only. I closed my laptop. I stood up. I walked around my apartment. I looked at the bills on the floor. I said out loud "You are not seriously thinking about this.". I was thinking about it. The job was for Jason Black. He is a man who lives in a big house. He fired his three chefs and they were all men. He has an allergy to women. If he touches a woman. Smells her perfume and he gets very sick. I laughed when I read that.. Then I looked it up. It is real. He has not left his house in years.. He needs a chef. A male chef. I looked in the window. I saw my reflection. I have hair and full lips. I am a woman. I said "You cannot do this. You will get caught. You will get in trouble.". Then I looked at the eviction notice. I had three days. If I did not do something I would be on the street. I opened my laptop again. I read the job posting again. The salary was good. I would have a place to live. Then I did something I never thought I would do. I picked up my phone and started looking up how to look like a boy. The next day was crazy. I watched videos. I went to thrift stores. I learned about clothes that make your chest flat. I learned about makeup that makes your jaw look sharper. I learned about how to make your voice deeper. I practiced in the mirror. I said "My name is Leo. I am twenty-two. I trained in Paris." My voice was shaking. I bought men's clothes. I cut my hair. I looked in the mirror. I did not recognize myself. I looked like a boy. I said "My name is Leo, I am twenty-two. I trained in Paris. I do not talk much because I am shy." After doing all of that, I refreshed the job description again and clicked the apply button. I exhaled the breath I didn’t know I had held in. The phone rang six hours later. I almost didn’t answer. I was in the middle of a panic spiral – pacing, sweating, convinced that the police were already on their way to arrest me for fraud. But the caller ID said Blackwood Estate, and my hand moved before my brain could stop it. “Hello?” “Leo Chen?” A woman’s voice. Crisp. Professional. “This is Mrs. Holloway, house manager for Mr. Black. We received your application and references. Chef Marchetti speaks very highly of you.” I’d forged that reference. Well – not forged. I’d called my old mentor, told him I was applying for a job under a different name for “personal safety reasons,” and begged him to play along. He’d sighed for a full ten seconds. Then he’d agreed. God bless old French chefs who’d seen everything. “Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’m honored.” “Mr. Black would like to conduct a preliminary interview. Via video call. Tomorrow at 10 AM.” My heart stopped. Video call. They’d see my face. My jaw. My neck. Everything I’d tried to hide. “That’s fine,” I said, even as my stomach turned to ice. “I’ll send you the link.” When I hung up, I sank to the floor. Sat there in my tiny apartment with the eviction notice taped to my door and the weight of the lie pressing down on my chest. I could still back out. Delete the application. Pack my bags and call my landlord and admit defeat. If I did that I would be homeless. I would have to give up on my dream. I looked at my moms picture. She was smiling. I promised her I would make something of myself. I said "I am sorry Mom. I do not know what to do." I cut my hair again. I put on makeup. I practiced my voice. By midnight I looked like a boy. By morning I had convinced myself that the lie was worth it. At 10 AM I was sitting in front of my laptop. I was wearing a white chef coat and my heart was beating fast. The video call connected. And Jason Black looked at me through the screen – those whiskey-dark eyes, that sharp jaw, that stillness that made him seem more predator than man – and said, “Leo. Tell me why you want to cook for a man who can’t be touched.” I opened my mouth. And the lie came out like honey. “Because food doesn’t care who touches it, sir. It just wants to be made right.” He studied me for a long, terrible moment. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Come in for a cooking trial. Tuesday. Don’t be late.” He ended the call. I sat there, frozen, my reflection staring back from the blank screen. The worst part wasn’t the lie. The worst part was that I’d enjoyed the way he looked at me.