Chapter 4

Not even a single text?

Even in the busiest job, people still use the bathroom, don't they?

I had been so blind.

As I approached our apartment building, I stopped. I looked up at the sixth floor.

Our unit’s lights were on.

He was home.

I took a deep breath, reached into my pocket, and clicked the power button on the recorder.

The tiny red LED light flashed once, signaling it was recording.

I slid it back into my pocket, zipped it up, and walked inside.

My legs felt like lead as I climbed the stairs. It took me nearly ten minutes just to reach our door.

I pulled out my keys, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

The rich, mouth-watering aroma of gourmet food instantly hit me.

I froze.

The dining table was covered in an absolute feast. Seared salmon, glazed ribs, garlic butter broccoli, and a perfectly seasoned potato soup. There were seven or eight dishes, beautifully plated like they had just been served at a Michelin-star restaurant.

Julian poked his head out of the kitchen, wearing the faded blue apron I had bought years ago. He flashed me a warm, boyish smile.

"You're home! Go wash your hands, the soup is almost ready."

Looking at his smile, a shiver ran down my spine.

My husband used to burn instant ramen.

Once, when I had to work late and asked him to make pasta, he turned the noodles into a soggy, burnt paste that ruined the pot. I still vividly remembered him standing in the kitchen, looking completely helpless and embarrassed.

But the man standing in front of me now was casually tossing ingredients in a wok with the effortless grace of a professional chef.

I slowly took off my shoes, walked over to the table, and sat down. My throat felt incredibly tight.

He brought over the soup, placed it gently in the center, took off his apron, and sat down opposite me.

"Try this," he said, placing a tender piece of salmon onto my plate. "Tell me how it tastes."

I took a small bite. It was spectacular. The fish was perfectly flaky, savory, and rich—better than anything I’d ever had at a luxury restaurant.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his eyes soft and attentive.

"It's... amazing," I said, slowly putting my fork down. "When did you learn to cook like this?"

"While I was abroad," he replied smoothly, without a second of hesitation. "When you're living alone in a foreign country, you either learn to cook or you starve. I was terrible at first, but practice makes perfect."

"But you always told me you were too busy with work to even sleep. How did you find the time to master gourmet cooking?"

He paused. It was a fraction of a second—so fast that anyone else would have missed it.

"Well, a man still has to eat," he smiled warmly. "And later on, my project transitioned into a slower phase. I had more free time to experiment in the kitchen."

It was a flawless answer. Every question had an explanation, and every explanation was perfectly logical.

But the logical perfection only made me more terrified.

The old Julian didn't have this level of mental agility. He was clumsy with his words, easily confused, and arguing with him was always an exercise in frustration.

But this man? He was sharp, articulate, and every response felt pre-programmed and rehearsed to perfection.

I kept my head down and ate in silence. The recorder in my pocket silently blinked, completely hidden beneath my clothes.

After dinner, I went to wash the dishes. He came into the kitchen to help, but I gently pushed him away, telling him to relax and watch some TV.

He complied instantly, giving me a soft nod.

Standing at the sink, my hands submerged in the warm soapy water, my mind raced. I needed a reason to leave for my mom's place. But it had to be seamless. I couldn't let him suspect a thing.

When I walked back into the living room, he was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

I sat down next to him, trying to find the words to break the news. But before I could speak, he turned to me.

"Actually, there's something I need to tell you," he said.

"What is it?"

"I'm planning on staying for good this time. But I still have some paperwork and final loose ends to wrap up at the overseas office. I’ll need to go back one last time. It’ll probably take a month or two. But..."

He reached out, his hand covering mine. His palm was warm, dry, and perfectly steady.

"I want you to come with me."

***

###