The next morning, I woke up to an empty bed but the sound of voices outside the door.
When I stepped into the hallway, a maid was waiting for me. "The master asked me to teach you basic chores."
I blinked at her. "…What?"
"Come with me," she said, not unkindly, but not waiting for an answer either.
I followed her to the kitchen, where everything gleamed like it had never been touched. I stared at the stovetop like it was a bomb about to go off.
"You've never cooked before?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," I muttered, defensive. "We didn't exactly get meals at the bar. We ate whatever was thrown at us."
She sighed, and handed me an egg. "Crack this."
I stared at it. "How?"
She looked at me like I'd just confessed to being from another planet. "Just—tap it on the side of the bowl. Not too hard."
I did as told. The egg exploded all over my fingers, yolk and shell dripping down my wrist.
Her face was unreadable. "…Okay. We'll try again."
By the time we got one egg to stay mostly intact in the bowl, my hands were shaking, and I wanted to throw the stupid thing against the wall.
When Kang Taejun came home later that evening, he found me sitting at the table, glaring at the bowl of rice and egg like it had personally wronged me.
"What's this?" he asked, loosening his tie.
I didn't answer.
The maid started to explain, but he raised a hand to silence her. "Leave us."
When we were alone, he walked over, looking at the mess on the counter. "…You tried to cook."
"Your maid made me," I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Good."
"Good?" I repeated, glaring at him. "Do you get off on watching me humiliate myself?"
He didn't even flinch. Just walked closer until I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
"You think learning to feed yourself is humiliation?"
"Yes!" I shot back. "I don't know how to do this! I was born in that hellhole, do you understand? I was never taught anything except how to dance and how to—" I bit my tongue before the word "please people" could come out.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.
"Then I'll teach you," he said finally, voice calm, final.
I froze. "…Why?"
"Because you're mine," he said simply, leaning closer. "And I don't keep broken things. If you're going to stay here, you will learn how to live."
The words landed in my stomach like a stone.
I didn't know whether to be angry… or grateful.
The next evening, he made me stand in the kitchen again.
"I'm not doing this," I muttered, crossing my arms.
"Yes, you are," he said, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling them up with deliberate calm. "We're starting with rice. If you can't feed yourself, you'll always be dependent on someone else. And I don't want that."
I hated him for sounding like he was doing me a favor.
He handed me a measuring cup. "Take one cup."
I glared at it. "…What's a cup?"
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed under his breath. Not mocking—just surprised. "You really don't know anything."
"Stop laughing at me!"
He didn't stop. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the fact you look ready to murder me over rice."
"I am ready to murder you," I hissed.
His expression softened in a way that made my chest feel tight. "Then murder me after you cook. Come here."
I stomped closer. He stood behind me, his hands brushing mine as he showed me how to scoop the rice. I felt his warmth at my back, his breath ghosting against my neck.
My chest thudded painfully.
"Wash it until the water runs clear," he instructed.
I did, hands clumsy, rice spilling everywhere.
"You're making a mess," he said lightly.
"Then do it yourself," I snapped.
He grabbed my wrists, not hard but firm enough to still me. "Seo Joon."
I froze.
His voice was quiet, steady. "You hate this. I can see it. But I'm not letting you give up."
My throat tightened. "…Why do you care?"
He looked at me for a long moment, then released me. "Because no one ever cared enough to teach you before. And I hate that."
I turned away quickly, blinking back tears I didn't want him to see.
"Put the rice in the pot," he said softly, as if nothing had happened.
I obeyed.
When the rice was done, I sat at the table with the steaming bowl in front of me. It was ugly, clumpy, not at all like the perfect dishes his cooks made.
"Eat," he said.
I hesitated. "…You're not eating?"
"I didn't cook it. You did. Taste it."
I lifted a spoonful to my mouth, nervous. It wasn't bad. Plain, but edible.
"Well?" he asked.
"…It's fine."
He smirked. "Good. Tomorrow, we'll learn how to fry an egg without turning it into glue."
I scowled. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." His voice was calm, infuriatingly sure.
I wanted to scream at him, throw the bowl, something. Instead, I took another bite.
And for some reason, it tasted better than anything I had eaten in years.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The rice sat heavy in my stomach, but it wasn't the food keeping me awake. It was him—his hands over mine, his voice in my ear, the strange gentleness that didn't make sense.
I sat on the floor near the window, hugging my knees. The city lights glowed far below, taunting me. Free people lived out there. People who didn't have to ask permission to step outside.
"Why are you awake?"
His voice made me flinch. He stood in the doorway, dressed down, hair damp from a shower.
"I'm not tired," I muttered.
He stepped inside, barefoot, and sat across from me on the floor. "You're lying."
I turned away. "You don't know me."
"Then tell me," he said simply.
That startled me. "What?"
"Tell me something. Anything."
I stayed silent.
"You lived in that bar your whole life, didn't you?"
My jaw tightened. "So what if I did?"
"Was there anyone who ever… looked out for you?"
A bitter laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. "Look out for me? You think someone like me gets protected? No. I was used to it. Beaten. Sold when they got bored of me. And now—" I looked at him, anger rising in my chest. "Now you own me, too. Congratulations."
His eyes didn't flinch. "I know."
"Then why are you pretending to care?" My voice cracked. "Do you think teaching me how to cook erases what you did? What are you?"
For a moment, he didn't speak. Then, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"No," he said quietly. "But maybe it makes the cage less cold."
Something in me snapped at those words.
"I don't want a warmer cage!" I shouted, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. "I want to leave! I want to be free! I want to stop being—" My voice broke completely. "—someone's thing."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
When I finally looked up, his expression wasn't angry. It wasn't smug. It was… tired.
"I can't let you leave," he said softly. "But I can make sure you're never treated like you were again. Leaving will make your life a pure hell."
My hands clenched. "You still don't get it."
"Maybe not." He stood, towering over me. "But I'm trying."
Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
I pressed my face into my knees and cried until I had no tears left.