Chapter 5: The Public Humiliation
The staff room at Maison Rouge smelled of sweat, seared butter, and the particular exhaustion that came from a double shift on a Friday night. Leonid sat on the edge of a stainless steel prep table, rolling his shoulders, feeling the ache settle deep between his shoulder blades. His whites were rumpled, stained with demi-glace and red wine, and his feet throbbed inside his worn service shoes. Three hours left. Then he could collapse.
He checked his phone. No new messages from Jennie since the afternoon—just a string of heart emojis and a photo of her lunch, a delicate arrangement of avocado toast and poached eggs that had probably cost more than his entire grocery budget for the week. He'd replied with a thumbs-up and gone back to polishing silverware.
"You look like shit."
Leonid glanced up. Minho, the head bartender, leaned against the doorframe with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, his sleeves rolled to the elbow to show the faded ink of old gang tattoos he'd gotten in a different life. He'd been working at Maison Rouge for eight years, had seen a hundred servers come and go, and had developed a particular talent for spotting the ones who were about to crack.
"Thanks," Leonid said dryly. "You really know how to boost morale."
"I'm serious." Minho crossed his arms, studying him with the weary assessment of a man who'd seen too many young men break under the weight of this job. "You've been here since eleven this morning. You barely touched your break. The Kim usually lets you slide with a lighter schedule when you have exams, but you've been picking up every shift available for the past two weeks." He tilted his head. "Something happen? You and the boss fighting?"
Leonid's jaw tightened. "We're fine."
"Uh-huh." Minho didn't sound convinced. "That's why you've been working double shifts at your girlfriend's restaurant instead of staying over at her mansion like you used to. Sure. Totally fine."
"Heading out." Leonid grabbed his tray from the rack and pushed past Minho, ignoring the bartender's low chuckle. The dining room was in full swing, a symphony of clinking glasses and murmured conversations under the warm glow of the pendant lights. Maison Rouge was Jennie's crown jewel, the flagship of her culinary empire, and tonight it was packed with the kind of clientele that made the reservation list look like a who's who of Seoul's elite.
Leonid moved through the crowd with practiced efficiency, delivering plates, refilling water glasses, clearing tables. The work was mindless, which was exactly what he needed. For the past week, every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jennie's face on that velvet sofa, watching him work, her smile so soft and so sharp at the same time. He'd finished his project at four in the morning, his eyes burning, his body still humming from what she'd done to him under that desk. She'd been asleep by then, curled on the sofa like a cat, and he'd covered her with a blanket and left without saying goodbye.
He hadn't been back to the mansion since.
The front door opened, and Leonid felt the shift before he saw her. A change in the room's temperature, a collective intake of breath as heads turned toward the entrance. Jennie swept in wearing a black dress that hugged every curve, her hair swept up in an elegant chignon, diamond earrings catching the light like captured stars. She was flanked by four men in expensive suits, investors from Singapore, judging by the accents he overheard as the hostess led them to the private booth in the corner.
The booth with the perfect view of the entire dining room.
Leonid's stomach dropped.
He kept his eyes forward, focused on the table he was serving, a family of six celebrating an anniversary. The grandmother caught his eye and smiled warmly, and he forced himself to smile back, to be present, to not look at the corner where he could feel Jennie's gaze like a physical weight.
His phone buzzed in his apron pocket. He ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
Between courses, he ducked into the service corridor and pulled out his phone. Seven messages, all from Jennie.
You look handsome in your uniform.
Come say hello to my guests.
Leonid. I know you can see this.
Don't make me come find you.
He pocketed the phone and went back to work.
For an hour, he managed to avoid her. The restaurant was chaos, a beautiful, controlled chaos that he could lose himself in. He carried trays of seared scallops and wagyu beef, he uncorked bottles of wine that cost more than his monthly rent, he smiled at customers and cleared plates and tried not to think about the storm gathering in the corner booth.
Then the woman appeared at his elbow.
She was young—mid-twenties, maybe—with glossy dark hair and a designer handbag that probably cost more than his motorcycle. She'd been at the bar for the last hour, nursing a cocktail and watching him with an interest that made his skin prickle.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice sweet, playful. "I couldn't help but notice you're the only server here who actually seems to know what he's doing."
Leonid forced a polite smile. "Thank you. Can I get you another drink?"
"Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend something from the menu. I've never been here before, and I want to impress my date." She leaned closer, and he caught a whiff of expensive perfume, something floral and young. "He's very picky. But I have a feeling you know your way around good food."
"I can recommend the tasting menu," he said, stepping back slightly. "It's the chef's signature."
"Perfect." She reached out and touched his arm, her fingers lingering. "I'm Hana, by the way. And you are?"
"Leonid." He gently extracted his arm. "I'll put in the order for the tasting menu. If you need anything else, your server will be with you shortly."
He turned to walk away, but she caught his wrist.
"Wait," she said, her voice dropping to something intimate. "What time do you get off?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm just asking." She smiled, all teeth and confidence. "You seem like you could use a drink. I know a place that stays open late."
Leonid opened his mouth to respond, to politely decline, but the words died in his throat. Across the room, Jennie was standing at the edge of her booth, her dark eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made the temperature drop ten degrees. Her smile was gone, replaced by something cold and territorial.
"Leonid." Her voice cut through the murmur of the restaurant, sharp and commanding. Every head in the vicinity turned. "My guests are waiting for their wine. Perhaps you could focus on your actual job instead of fraternizing with customers."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Leonid felt his face burn. The young woman—Hana—withdrew her hand like she'd been burned, suddenly very interested in the bar top. Around them, conversations resumed in hushed whispers, but he could feel the eyes on him, the judgment, the curiosity.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice tight. "I'll get the wine right away."
He moved toward the service bar, his heart pounding, his hands shaking slightly as he grabbed the bottle of Petrus that Jennie had selected for her investors. Minho was already there, his expression carefully neutral.
"Trouble in paradise?" the bartender murmured.
"Not now," Leonid said through gritted teeth.
He carried the wine to the booth, keeping his eyes down as he set it on the table. Jennie's hand shot out, catching his wrist with surprising strength.
"I need to speak with you," she said, her voice low and dangerous, the investor smiles around her frozen in polite confusion. "In the back. Now."
"Jennie, I'm in the middle of a shift—"
"Now."
She released his wrist and rose from the booth, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she walked toward the back corridor without looking back. The investors exchanged glances, clearly uncertain.
Leonid had no choice but to follow.
The back office was small, cluttered with paperwork and wine crates, the walls lined with framed awards and photographs of Jennie at various galas, always radiant, always in control. She stood in the center of the room with her back to him, her shoulders rigid.
"Who was that woman?" Her voice was quiet. Too quiet.
"A customer. She asked for a menu recommendation."
"She touched you."
"She was being friendly—"
"She touched you." Jennie spun around, and her face was a mask of barely contained fury. "I watched her put her hands on you. I watched you let her. Smiling at her, letting her flirt with you, in my restaurant, in front of my guests."
"For fuck's sake, Jennie." Leonid ran a hand through his hair, frustration boiling over. "She asked me what time I got off work. I was trying to be polite. Nothing happened."
"Nothing happened because I interrupted." She advanced on him, her eyes blazing. "What would have happened if I hadn't been there? Would you have gone with her? Would you have let her buy you drinks, let her take you home—"
"Stop." The word came out harder than he intended, and she flinched. "You're being ridiculous. I didn't encourage her. I didn't want her. I have a girlfriend, and she's standing here acting like I've already betrayed her."
"Then why have you been avoiding me?" Her voice cracked, and for a moment, he saw something vulnerable beneath the fury. "A week, Leonid. A week without coming to see me. Without calling. I have to text you just to know you're alive, and you show up here, working double shifts, picking up extra hours when you know I would give you anything you need. You're pulling away from me."
"I'm not pulling away." He forced his voice to soften. "I'm just tired. I have exams, I have projects, I need to replace my laptop—"
"I can buy you a laptop." She stepped closer, reaching for his face. "I can buy you a hundred laptops. I can give you anything you want, anything you need, you just have to ask me."
"I don't want you to buy me things." He caught her hand, holding it away from him. "I want to earn them myself. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet without feeling like I'm just another one of your charity cases."
The words hung in the air between them, poisonous and true.
Jennie's face went pale. "That's what you think you are? A charity case?"
"No." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "No, that's not what I meant. I just—I need to figure out who I am without you, Jennie. You've been taking care of me since I was a kid. You gave me my first job, you paid for my tutoring, you helped me get into SNU. And I'm grateful, I am. But sometimes I feel like I can't breathe. Like everything I do, every choice I make, is measured against what you want for me."
"And what do you want?" Her voice was small, fragile. "Do you want to be with someone your own age? Someone like that girl out there, with her whole life ahead of her, who doesn't come with all my... baggage?"
"I want to be with you." He said it simply, honestly. "I've wanted to be with you since I was nineteen years old, hiding in the pantry at your old restaurant, hoping you'd notice me. But I need you to trust me, Jennie. I need you to stop treating me like I'm one wrong move away from leaving you."
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
"I can't help it." She looked up at him, and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. "Every time I see a young woman look at you, something inside me breaks. I know it's irrational. I know you love me. But you're so beautiful, Leonid, and you have so much life ahead of you, and I'm just... I'm just the woman who watched you grow up. The woman who loves you more than she's ever loved anything in her life. And I'm terrified that one day you'll realize you can do better."
"Jennie." He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. "There is no one better. Don't you understand that? You're it for me. You're everything."
She clung to him, her face buried in his neck, her body trembling with the effort of holding back sobs. He stroked her hair, murmuring soft reassurances, feeling the sharp edge of her collarbone against his chest, the fragility beneath her armor.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I embarrassed you out there. I'm sorry I'm so difficult."
"It's okay." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I know you didn't mean it."
"But I did." She pulled back, looking up at him with raw honesty. "I meant every word. I was jealous, and I was cruel, and I hurt you because I was scared. That's not fair to you."
She reached up and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
"Sometimes I think I'm too broken to love you the way you deserve," she said softly. "But I don't know how to stop."
Leonid caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You don't have to be perfect. You just have to trust me."
In the distance, the restaurant hummed with life, a world away from this small, cluttered room where they held each other and tried to remember how to breathe.
The slap came without warning.
One moment she was melting into him, her eyes soft and her body pliant, and the next her hand connected with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoed through the narrow corridor. Leonid stumbled back, more from shock than pain, his hand rising to his stinging face.
"Don't you understand?" Jennie's voice had gone high and sharp, her composure shattering like glass. "That little bitch out there—she doesn't care about you. She sees a pretty face, a nice body—she doesn't know you. She doesn't know how you take your coffee (black, no sugar, but only in the morning because caffeine keeps you up at night), or how you hum when you're reading something you like, or how you smoke those awful cigarettes but always spray cologne before you kiss me so I can't taste it. She doesn't know the way your voice drops when you're being serious, the way you bite your lip when you're thinking, the way your whole face lights up when you see something beautiful—"
She struck him again, a wild, swinging blow that caught his shoulder. Leonid caught her wrists, holding her still.
"Jennie, stop."
"Make me." She was crying now, tears streaking mascara down her cheeks. "Make me stop feeling like this. Make me stop thinking about every woman who looks at you, every barista who smiles at you, every classmate who offers to help you with your fucking projects—"
There was a wet sound as her hand slipped from his grip and caught him across the face again, her nails raking his cheek. He cried out, shoving her back, and she stumbled against the wall, her chest heaving.
"You're being insane," he said, and his voice shook with anger and something else, something that felt dangerously close to fear.
"I'm being realistic." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she bared her teeth in something that was almost a smile, utterly devoid of warmth. "I'm thirty-eight years old. In ten years, I'll be nearly fifty, and you'll still be young. Still beautiful. And all these young women will still be throwing themselves at you, and I'll be old, and tired, and you'll resent me. You'll leave me for someone younger, someone prettier, someone who can give you the children I can't—"
"I don't want children." The words came out hard, flat. "I've told you that. I've never wanted children."
"Then what do you want?" she screamed, the sound raw and jagged. "What do you actually want from me, Leonid? Because I feel like I'm drowning. I feel like I'm clawing at a cliff edge and you keep telling me to just hold on, but you're not pulling me up, you're just watching me struggle—"
"I'm trying." His voice cracked. "I'm trying so hard to be what you need, but I don't know what that is anymore. You push me away and pull me close so fast that I can't keep my footing. You treat me like a possession one minute and a partner the next. I don't know where I stand with you."
She stared at him, her face wet with tears, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
"You stand with me," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "That's where you stand. Right beside me, like you always have. Like you always will."
She stepped forward, reaching for him again, and Leonid flinched.
The movement was involuntary, instinctive—a physical recoil from a hand that had just struck him twice. But the look on Jennie's face when she saw it was something he'd never forget. A devastation so complete, so raw, that it made his own heart twist in his chest.
"You're afraid of me," she whispered.
"No. I just—"
"You're afraid of me." She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. "God. I've become the one thing I never wanted to be. I've become my mother."
"Jennie—"
"Just go." She turned away from him, her shoulders shaking. "Go back to your shift. Finish your work. I'll... I'll have someone else drive the investors home."
He stood frozen, staring at her back, wanting to say something—anything—that would fix this. But the words wouldn't come. The silence stretched, agonizing, until finally he turned and walked out of the office, his cheek still stinging, his heart pounding with a sick, heavy dread.
The restaurant was still alive, still golden and humming, but it felt like a different world now, a world he didn't belong to. He found Minho at the service bar, who took one look at his face and winced.
"Shit, kid. She really laid into you."
Leonid touched his cheek, feeling the raised lines of scratches she'd left. He didn't say anything. He couldn't.
Minho studied him for a moment, then reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of soju and a glass.
"Sit," he said. "Take five. I'll cover your tables."
Leonid sank onto a stool, his legs weak, his hands trembling. The soju burned going down, and he welcomed it, let it settle in his stomach like a warm coal. Minho leaned against the counter, watching him in the mirror.
"You know," the bartender said, his voice low, almost gentle, "she wasn't always like this. When she first opened this place, she was different. Sharper, but kinder. She used to stay late and have drinks with the staff, ask about our lives, remember our birthdays. Then her mother died, and something in her just... closed off."
Leonid stared at his reflection, at the scratches on his cheek, at the haunted look in his own eyes. "She said something about that. Before. That she was becoming her mother."
Minho's expression flickered. "Her mother was a piece of work. Cold. Manipulative. Used to punish the staff for small mistakes with these long, elaborate lectures about loyalty and gratitude." He paused, swirled the soju in his glass. "But she also loved her daughter. In her own twisted way, she did. She just didn't know how to show it without everything becoming about control."
The words settled into Leonid's chest like stones.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked, and his voice sounded small, lost. "She loves me. I know she loves me. But this—this isn't sustainable. I can't keep living like this, walking on eggshells, never knowing when she's going to explode."
Minho was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and put a hand on Leonid's shoulder.
"You need to decide what you can live with," he said. "There's no right answer. But there's a difference between loving someone and letting them hurt you. And you need to figure out which one you're doing."
Leonid finished the soju and set the glass down. "I think I need to go home."
"Go." Minho took the glass, wiped the counter. "I'll tell the floor manager you got sick. Take a few days, figure things out."
Leonid nodded, slid off the stool, and walked through the back exit into the cool night air. The city hummed around him, bright and indifferent, and he stood there for a moment, the door closing behind him, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn't check it at first. He just stood there, letting the breeze cool his stinging cheek, trying to figure out what his next move was supposed to be.
It buzzed again. Insistent. Demanding.
He pulled it out.
Leonid, please come back. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll be better. I promise I'll be better. Just don't leave me.
A pause. Then:
I can't do this without you.
He stared at the words, the letters blurring in the dim light of his screen. He thought about her face when she'd realized he flinched. He thought about her mother, about Minho's words, about the way she'd looked at him from across the room—beautiful and broken and so terribly, desperately afraid.
He didn't know what to do. He didn't know who he was supposed to be.
But he knew he couldn't stay here, standing in the alley behind her restaurant, letting her words pull him back into orbit like a moon caught in the gravity of a dying star.
He pocketed his phone, straddled his motorcycle, and rode into the night without looking back.