It was never meant to be like this. Never.

The urge to snap that thin neck of hers had risen in him, the thought came out of nowhere, more times than he could count—but he had always held back. He had always kept enough restraint.

The storm had broken over him, however, not because of Song Hae-som—but because of Cha Jun-won.

“Tonight’s Bambi’s last night.”

“So it is.”

“‘So it is’? You have a terrible way of making people feel not welcome, do you know that?”

Why was that a problem?

She herself had been the one to request the end of her internship. Why was everyone so determined to cast him as the villain?

It was Jung Jae-geon who had been blindsided and betrayed.

He had no intention of growing closer to Song Hae-som, nor ever touching her again—but he had allowed her to stay and work until the agreed end of her term. It was the last kindness and professional consideration he could offer her, as a senior in the industry. Yet Cha Jun-won had turned on him, calling him heartless and cruel.

If only they knew the deceit hidden behind that innocent face… if only they knew what really lay beneath… they would not speak so fondly of her. To hold Song Hae-som up as some kind of wronged angel was to spit in his own face—and so he had ignored them all.

He was scanning through the nearly finalized new menu drafts when a folder came flying across the room and landed with a thud before him.

“What is this?”

“Hae-som’s internship report. Sign each section, fill out the evaluation form.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

Jun-won shrugged, without looking the least bit sorry.

“She’s not my staff. Why would I be the one to sign it? Don’t create problems later—you’re her direct supervisor. You do it.”

Jae-geon huffed a dry, bitter laugh and picked up his pen.

A quick glance suggested it would not take long. There were five categories: Attendance, Work Attitude, Technical Skill, Hygiene & Safety, and Potential for Growth. There was also a short section for Overall Supervisor Comments.

A minute or two, perhaps five at most.

He began lightly enough—but the very first section gave him pause.

He saw her arriving early, as always, finishing all prep before anyone else… and that tired, sleepless face she wore each morning.

Work attitude and skill were beyond reproach. If anything, her potential was too outstanding—that was the problem.

If he had to find fault, it would be her reckless disregard for safety… yet he could not bring himself to mark her down, not even in jest.

He knew how sincerely she had applied herself. How much heart she had poured into every day.

That was exactly what angered him.

That foolish, impossible affection she harbored—for a dead man—had stood in the way of everything she might have become. That was what gnawed at him.

What was so special about Yoo Eun-ho? What was there in that pale, lifeless face that made her lose sleep, lose herself, forget everything?

It was Jung Jae-geon’s fault, really—interrupting their tragic little love story like a clumsy fool. Who else was there to blame?

He gave her the highest possible score in every category, signed off without hesitation, and closed the file. He let the talk of farewell gatherings fade into the background. He went home alone and uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux, one as old as Hae-som.

For a moment he imagined those smiling, purple-tinted lips… the taste of wine she had once shared with him lingered on his tongue… and then it was gone.

That was all Song Hae-som was to him. A fleeting, teasing appetizer—delicious while it lasted, then vanished without a trace.

He gave a bitter laugh. She certainly knows how to make a dish that leaves you hungry. Then he finished his second glass.

Then the bell chimed.

Clear, bright chimes cutting through the quiet music. It was nearly two hours since service ended. About the time her farewell dinner would be finishing, he realized.

Some part of him had expected this. That she might come by—to say thank you, to share some soft parting word.

He walked to the front door and crossed the garden without a tremor in his chest. No wavering. No hesitation.

When he opened the gate, there she stood—eyes wide and bright, like a cat in boots, gazing up at him.

“Chef.”

Did Song Hae-som even realize? That those wide, innocent eyes were her weapon? That they could stir guilt where none existed?

He would not be swayed. He wanted this over quickly—whatever she had come to say—and gone.

“Why are you here?”

“It’s Saturday.”

It’s Saturday. So she had come to ask him to bed again? To do as they always did?

The suggestion struck him like a weapon, and reason snapped clean in two.

He tore her clothes away, baring her pale, soft flesh, and drove into her narrow, dry passage without gentleness.

It wasn’t some grand, carefully planned lesson. It was far more stingy than that. He wanted to force his own heartbreak onto her, to make her feel every broken piece of what he felt. It was petty, obvious revenge.

Even then, she would not yield to him—not until he let her choose the position she wanted. Only when she was on top, in control, did she soften and flow around him.

As she looked down at him, eyes unfocused and hazy—who was she seeing?

Every time her body clenched tight around him, squeezing him deep, Jung Jae-geon felt as though his own heart were being torn out.

Pieces of him, torn and bleeding, gathered into one whole. Something that looked like Jung Jae-geon… yet could easily, so easily, be mistaken for Yoo Eun-ho.

How far would she let herself destroy him?

He drove into her harder, relentlessly, and raced toward his end.

She cried out in pain, sharp and desperate, and part of him ached to stop—but he could not. If he stopped because she asked… then he really was nothing more than Yoo Eun-ho’s substitute.

“Look at me. Who am I?”

His voice shook as he demanded an answer.

“Tell me—who is inside you?”

He was begging. Begging her to say his name. Begging to be himself, for just one moment—separate from the dead man.

He drove deeper, praying that the face reflected in her wide, empty eyes was his and his alone, Jung Jae-geon, not Yoo Eun-ho. A prayer that felt almost wrong.

“Who do you belong to right now? Who is fucking you?”

He asked again and again. She never answered. She only held him tighter, squeezed him harder, clinging to the ghost inside her mind.

His mind broke. Reason fell away. He spent himself, hard and desperate, and marked her—spilling his release across her face, claiming her as his own.

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

She said nothing. Only tears streamed down her face, mixing with everything he had left there.

---

A crumpled napkin landed softly beside her. Before she could react, he wiped the moisture from her face—and seized her wrist.

“Ah—!”

She had been too dazed to notice. Her wrist had been bound all this time.

“Stop standing there like a fool. Wash up.”

He released her reddened, chafed wrist, speaking as though he were doing her a great favor.

The watch that had once bound her, far too large for her wrist, now fit securely around his own left wrist. She stared up at him, dazed.

Just moments ago he had been cruel, mocking Eun-ho… yet now, the Jae-geon she knew was returning.

“Leave if you’re going.”

This was not the man who had melted her down in bed moments before. This was the Chef again—cold, imposing, composed—the man she had first met. The one who had once asked her: Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look right now?

He straightened his clothing and fastened his trousers, then asked casually—his eyes hollow, empty.

“Shall I wash you?”

Ah. He had it all wrong.

Shall I pretend to be him? Shall I be Eun-ho for you?

He thought she had used him, used his face and his resemblance to someone else, to dream of another man.

She could not deny that she had been drawn to his face. That her heart had raced whenever she looked at him. That she had seen someone else in him… yes.

But she had never, not once, mistaken Jung Jae-geon for Yoo Eun-ho.

If that were really what she wanted… she would never have dared ask him to her bed. That would have been unforgivable—to him, to Eun-ho, and most of all to herself.

The problem was that she had no way to explain it.

Every time she drew near him, she grew flustered. Every night she had asked to stay… every excuse she had made to be with him. All of it looked like proof of his terrible conclusion. A conclusion so ugly it made her stomach turn.

“I’ll wash up and be out shortly.”