Chapter 20
Seoul, Hannam-dong penthouse.
Sorim sat on the living room sofa, hugging her knees.
It had been three days since Taeha left on his business trip.
The wide penthouse was cold and quiet, just like its owner.
At first, she thought it was more comfortable without him.
There was no one to watch carefully, no reason to stay tense.
But as night came, the unfamiliar cold air and heavy silence pressed down on her shoulders.
Even the sound of the TV felt empty in the huge space.
Being alone here felt lonely in a different way than the small room she lived in at Yeonhui-dong.
“…I wonder if he’s eating properly.”
She muttered to herself and played with her phone.
She thought about contacting him first, but stopped.
She worried that the arrogant man would frown and think she was annoying.
They were only tied together by a contract.
Asking about his personal life might be crossing the line.
Just then—
Beep.
The sound of the front door lock opening broke the silence.
“…!”
Sorim jumped up in surprise.
No one should be coming at this hour.
The driver had gone home, and the helper wasn’t scheduled to come.
“…Don’t tell me Minseo or my aunt came all the way here?”
Swallowing nervously, she stared at the door.
Then it opened, and a familiar figure walked in.
“…!”
A man wearing a gray trench coat, holding a briefcase.
The owner of this house—and Sorim’s “boss,” Song Taeha.
Sorim’s eyes widened at his much earlier return.
“…Mr. Taeha?”
Taeha took off his shoes and looked up.
He looked a bit tired from the long flight, but his sharp eyes were the same as ever.
He didn’t seem surprised to see her.
“You’re still awake.”
“How… how are you already back? You said it would take a week.”
“The work ended early. No reason to stay longer once I was done.”
He walked over and threw his coat onto the sofa.
He smelled like unfamiliar air, mixed with a faint scent of rain—
the smell of someone who had just come from a faraway country.
“Did you eat?”
“…Yes. Kind of.”
“Liar. The sink is completely dry.”
He noticed right away.
Sorim hesitated, not knowing what to say.
Taeha clicked his tongue once and took something out of his coat.
It was an old hardcover notebook with the smell of aged leather.
“This.”
He handed it to her casually.
“Take it.”
“What is this?”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
Sorim took the notebook, confused.
The leather felt rough and heavy.
There was no title on the cover, but at the bottom corner were faded gold initials.
[V. A.]
Vincent Aubert.
Her father’s initials. Her father’s handwriting.
Sorim’s eyes widened.
Her heart felt like it dropped to the floor.
“This… don’t tell me…”
“I found it by chance in Nantes. At the restaurant where your father worked.”
Taeha said calmly while loosening his tie.
“The owner was about to throw it away, so I brought it. Don’t feel pressured.”
He spoke like it was nothing important.
Sorim opened the notebook with shaking hands.
On the yellowed pages were French sentences written carefully with a fountain pen.
Next to them were detailed food sketches, ingredient ratios, and cooking times.
It felt less like a cookbook and more like a diary—
a record of someone’s life.
[The first sauce I made for my beloved wife, Yegyeong.]
The moment she read the words at the top of the first page, her vision blurred.
“Ah…”
A soft sound escaped her lips.
This was her father’s love confession, a tribute to her mother,
and the only thing he left behind for the daughter who would be alone.
If her mother’s notebook from Chef Nam Taeyoung was the “result,”
this was the “starting point” of everything.
Sorim hugged the notebook to her chest and bowed her head.
She clenched her teeth to stop the tears from falling.
He… found this for me.
Her roots—something she had been denied her whole life.
Her aunt had mocked it as something low and dirty.
Her grandmother wanted to erase that past.
But this man found that forgotten past and placed it into her hands.
She didn’t believe his excuse that he “just picked it up.”
She knew how careful and calculating he was.
That made it even harder to understand.
Why would he do this… for someone like her?
“…Thank you. Really, thank you, Mr. Taeha.”
She tried not to cry, but her effort to stay calm didn’t last long.
Taeha quietly looked down at her.
Seeing the top of her head shake as she cried strangely bothered him.
It irritated him—
or maybe it was more accurate to say her crying touched a nerve.
Yet instead of wanting her to stop crying,
a twisted desire rose inside him—to make her cling to him even through tears.
“Don’t cry. It’s nothing special.”
He said coldly and slid a box of tissues toward her.
Sorim pressed the tissues to her eyes.
“I’m sorry…”
“If you’re grateful, pay me back.”
Taeha leaned back into the sofa.
“This wasn’t free.”
“…How do I pay you back? I have nothing.”
“Prove it.”
His eyes shone sharply.
“Make everything in that notebook completely yours.”
“…”
“And succeed. Become the best chef and stand above everyone else.
That’s how you repay me.”
His arrogant demand sounded, at this moment, like pure encouragement.
That felt strange.
Wiping her tears, Sorim nodded.
“…I promise I will.”
Behind her wet eyes, a blue flame flickered.
Taeha liked that look.
He thought she was a gentle lamb,
but she knew how to show her teeth.
Just then, Taeha’s stomach growled.
The sound broke the silence, and their eyes met.
He cleared his throat and looked away.
“…I’m sick of airplane food.”
Sorim laughed softly through her tears.
Song Taeha, hungry enough for his stomach to growl.
It was strange—and surprisingly human.
“Wait a bit. I’ll make something quick.”
“Okay.”
“Should I try something from my father’s notebook?
The one on the first page?”
Holding the notebook carefully, Sorim headed to the kitchen.
Her steps were much lighter than before.
Taeha leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.
The sound of cooking came from the kitchen—
clattering dishes, chopping on the cutting board.
He was tired from the long trip, but his mood wasn’t bad.
Warmth was filling the once-empty house.
This was a worthwhile investment, he thought.
Just watching her happily go cook for him felt worth it.
Soon, the rich smell of butter filled the air.
It was a steaming bowl of soup.
“Try it. It’s onion soup.”
Taeha sat at the table and picked up his spoon.
He cracked through the golden-brown cheese layer, and hot steam rose.
He took a bite.
The deep flavor filled his mouth.
It was warm.
Not just the temperature of the food—
but the warmth of the person who made it.
