Hae-som was dragged inside and thrown roughly down onto the kitchen island.

Her stomach hit the edge hard, drawing a gasp of pain—but the sound was cut short, stifled by Jae-geon’s ruthless touch.

A hand seized her by the nape and pressed her cheek flat against the marble, then slid down to curve around her narrow waist. He wrenched open the buckle of her trousers and slipped his hand beneath the loose fabric.

Without hesitation, without the slightest fumbling, he dragged both trousers and underwear down together. There was no heat in his hands, no sweet urgency—only cold determination.

The bunched fabric caught in a mess around her knees, binding her ankles in place. She shifted, trying to move her legs, and his hands closed suddenly around her pale backside, holding her in.

Cold breath drifted over the line of her throat.

“You said you came because it’s Saturday.”

“Ah—!”

“Did you come here just to beg me to fuck you?”

“That’s not it.”

She lifted her head to protest, and he seized her by the nape without care.

Her forehead hit hard against the marble. Pain shot through her in a sharp, stinging wave. Had they been in bed, he would have checked her for injury first—but here, he only gave a short, cold laugh.

“Then tell me—at this hour… what did you come to see me for?”

Something felt very wrong. However rough he had been before, Jae-geon had never once skipped touching her, never once skipped caressing her. He had always taken her apart slowly, teased her until she burned—never anything like this.

He pulled open a drawer with a loud rattle. Hae-som flinched and pressed back. He stood fully erect behind her, his length pressed flush against her cleft, and spat a filthy, low word through his teeth.

“Tell me—what do you want from me, Song Hae-som… besides this?”

The button of her trousers snapped in two. He tore the fly open, sheathed himself with urgencies, and drove into her in one sharp, cold thrust.

“Chef—!”

He gripped her hips, arching her like a drawn bow, and settled into a rhythm. He filled her completely, deep and relentless—but there was no passion in it, no warmth.

It was not desire that drove him to this, but contempt.

This was punishment. A lesson—for daring to think she could play him for a fool.

He forced his way into her dry, tight passage, and delicate tissue tore and stung. He drove into her again and again, rough and dry, grinding into raw, sensitive flesh.

She was dry. She was not ready. He laughed without heat, a bitter, mocking sound, and drove into her hard once more.

“Ahh—!”

He drove so deep she could feel him strike the mouth of her womb. Her vision swam. Through the haze, she realized—he was still holding back, still sparing her. And that realization broke her; she began to weep, quiet, helpless sobs.

Heavy, tight testicles slapped against her, striking the sensitive, dry flesh in a steady, cruel rhythm. The sound was wet and obscene, sharp and regular—slap, slap—and it twisted through her.

He muttered foul, vulgar words he had never spoken to her before, and shame and thrill coiled hot and tight in her belly.

“Hah—!”

She took him, helpless, trembling, every hair standing on end. She felt the familiar rising, the sign of release—but still, no moisture came. She was dry, burning, tight.

Ignited by her body’s refusal, he drove harder, faster, sharper—thrusting without mercy, without care.

He shifted his grip, one hand beneath her shoulder, yanking her upright. The angle changed. He pulled her arms back, bending her into a posture that felt wanton, exposed.

He drove shallower now, but the pain did not fade—it burned, raw and piercing, tearing at her inside. Her heart felt broken, too. Somewhere deep within, she felt shattered.

At last, the tears she had held back broke free. They spilled over, hot and fast, and splashed against the back of his hand where it rested on the island.

“I—ah—! It hurts… please…”

It was about then, just then, that he reached his first release. She felt him throb inside her, pulsing, every vein and tremor laid bare through their joined flesh.

The relentless rhythm stopped—but before she could draw breath, he yanked her to turned over and forced her lay flat.

Her legs fell open, bending into wide angle. Between them, she saw his face—calm, composed, as if nothing had happened.

How could he look so cold? If she covered his lower half, he might have been a head chef finishing up dinner service—steady breathing, even expression, perfectly calm.

He knotted and discarded the used condom, then tore open a new one. No flush, no heat, no sign of exertion on his face.

Why… why is he like this?

Before she could think further, he seized her ankles and pulled her down the counter. Her shirt rode up, bunched around her ribs. She lifted her arms; he pinned both wrists in one hand, sheathed himself anew, and pushed inside her once more.

This time… it went easier. She knew this angle. And despite the cold, distant look in his eyes… he was breathtaking. Her heart raced helplessly.

And as she softened, as her heart opened, moisture began to come—slowly, then more.

He felt the change, felt her grow slick around him, and slowed his strokes, laughing without humor.

“Seems my face is quite to your taste after all, Song Hae-som.”

“Ah—!”

“You had to see my face to get wet, didn’t you? Disgusting little thing.”

He leaned down, his teeth closed over the leather strap of her watch, and wrenched it free. He used the strap to bind her wrists together above her head.

“What are you—!”

“What am I doing? Giving you exactly what you want. Exactly how you like it.”

Her arms were pinned. She could not move them. She twisted her hips, and the friction dragged her bra upward—her nipples bared, hard and tight.

“Why? Don’t you like it?”

Like it? She could not say no. She was already close, already trembling on the edge.

Her clitoris swelled and throbbed, aching and sensitive. Where they were joined… she was wet now, slick and ready, despite everything.

“I asked you—do you like it?”

With a soft, lewd sound, he withdrew slowly—pulling all the way out. She felt empty, aching, and liquid spilled from her in a warm rush. He watched it flow, then touched her—thumb pressing firm against her clitoris, two fingers sinking deep inside her, while the others held her in place.

He stroked her, slow and as if he knew.

He was a chef—his hands were his life, his fingers the most sensitive, precise things he owned.

He knew exactly where to touch. Exactly how to make her break. He had learned her body perfectly, and now he used every lesson against her.

She was melt around his fingers. Sweet, thick fluid turned thin and clear. Her hips jerked. She gasped—and then she broke, reaching her peak, spilling over him in a flood.

He watched the clear fluid run, his eyes dark with revulsion.

“Song Hae-som.”

She could not answer. She could barely breathe. And… he was not her direct superior anymore. Did she even need to be so polite, so respectful?

She pressed her lips tight, refusing to back down—and he thrust back into her hard, sharp, punishing.

Fluid pooled and spilled, slicking him, dripping down his skin.

“Who am I?”

What kind of question was this? She almost laughed, bewildered.

But he pushed deeper, harder, relentless—leaving no breath and no moment to breathe.

Song Hae-som… you always were weak in this position.

He thrust all the way to the hilt, and whispered against her skin.

“Tell me… who is fucking you?”

“Ahh—!”

He drove into her so hard stars burst behind her eyes. Tears spilled at last, running hot down her temples.

He went deeper still, as if to teach her exactly how deep he reached. Her inner walls clamped tight around him, squeezing, trembling.

He shuddered, his hips jerking, and laughed coldly.

“Tell me—who has you like this? Who is inside you, you little whore?”

He was close to his second release, but he did not slow. If anything, he drove harder, deeper—demanding an answer, branding himself into her.

Hae-som could not understand.

What did he want from this? Why was he so angry? Why had he been this way from the start?

“Why… why are you doing this?”

He paused, and his lips curved into a cold, perfect smile. He ground into her, rough and sharp.

“Would he have been more gentle? Would Yoo Eun-ho have fucked you more gently than this?”

The world went white. Her inner walls seized, clamping down hard around him.

“Shall I pretend to be him? Shall I be his ghost inside you?”

He drove so deep the condom slipped, lost within her. He watched, and the sight sent him over—he spilled himself, hard and long, crying out.

She clamped down tight, and the condom was pulled free entirely. He pulled out, stroking himself fast and hard, and dragged her down to her knees between his legs.

Weak, wiout resisting, she sank to the floor. He stood over her—and then he spent himself all over her face.

Thick, white fluid streaked her skin, her trembling eyelids. He had aimed there on purpose. Not by chance.

He seized her jaw in a cruel, firm grip, and spoke coldly.

“I asked you—would you prefer it were Yoo Eun-ho? Song Hae-som.”