Chapter 6 His Name Tastes Like Fate

(Naila's POV)

I sat on the edge of the guest bed with my knees pulled to my chest, the phone clutched like it was the only thing anchoring me to the room.

"Hi, Mama," I said, trying to sound brighter than I felt.

"You sound tired," she said. Just three words-and I already felt like she saw through me.

"I'm okay," I lied. "Just a long day. The house is beautiful. The kitchen's huge. Really modern."

"That's wonderful," she said, and I imagined her smiling softly. "I knew you'd be okay. I told everyone, you know. That you'd go over there and make us proud."

Guilt stung behind my eyes. I bit my lip and forced my voice to stay steady.

"I'm trying."

We talked for a few more minutes. I told her about the weather, about how I saw the Han River from the plane, how the taxi driver pointed out filming spots from K-dramas. I said everything but the truth.

That I'd been rejected before I even got a chance.

That I wasn't the chef.

That maybe I never would be.

She said, "You sound like you're doing great, baby."

And I said, "Yeah, I am."

I hung up with a soft "I love you," and then... the silence returned.

I dropped the phone beside me and stared at the wall.

The tears came almost instantly.

I didn't even try to stop them. I just curled tighter, pressing my face into my knees as quiet sobs shook through me. I had crossed an ocean, left everything I knew behind, and it still wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.

The shame sat heavy on my chest like smoke-thick, choking, impossible to shake.

This job... it could've changed our lives.

Twenty thousand dollars a month. That wasn't a salary. That was freedom. That was new appliances for Mama. That was the pilgrimage she'd only ever prayed for. That was a house where the roof didn't leak when it rained. Most of all I would have the money to become a professional chef like dad always wanted.

And I lost it before I even turned on a stove.

I don't know how long I cried before the door flew open.

"NAILA!"

I jumped like someone had thrown ice water on me.

Kiki stood in the doorway, her phone glowing in her hand and pure disbelief on her face.

"Kiki, I'm really not in the mood-"

"You got the job!" she shouted.

I blinked at her, mascara half-smudged. "What?"

She walked in like she couldn't believe it herself. "He just called. Like... literally just now. Said-and I quote-'Tell her to come back tomorrow. She's hired.'"

My brain stalled. "Wait... what? Why?!"

Kiki grinned so hard I thought her face might break. "Apparently, someone left a magical little pink lunchbox in his sitting room."

I gasped. "He ate it?"

"He devoured it. Noodles, mango chicken, plantains, everything. Then he called and said, 'She stays.' Just like that."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry again. So I did both.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "Mama was right."

Kiki tilted her head. "About what?"

"That showing up still counts."

I stood up slowly, the disbelief settling into something warmer. Realer. Like courage waking up inside my chest.

I had no idea that leaving my lunchbox behind would be the thing that saved me. But maybe that's what life is-chaos with seasoning.

Kiki flopped onto the bed with me, her feet still in shoes. "Girl, you don't even know what you just did. I've worked with this man for months and he barely says more than ten words a week. You got him to make a call."

I looked at her. "I don't even know his name."

She laughed. "You're kidding."

"I was too busy getting humiliated to ask."

Kiki raised an eyebrow and leaned in like she was about to spill the biggest tea of my life. "His name is Ren Sion."

I repeated it under my breath. "Ren Sion."

It sounded expensive. Clean. Like brushed steel and smooth piano keys. It had weight.

That name didn't belong to someone casual. It belonged to someone you remembered.

Ren Sion.

The man I spilled juice on.

The man who dismissed me.

The man who tasted my food and changed his mind.

I said the name again, quieter this time. It landed in my chest like a stamp.

"Kiki... I have nothing prepped. I need to cook tomorrow. For real."

"I figured you'd say that." She held up a shiny black folder. "I got the specs. The pantry inventory. His schedule. Even the brand of soy sauce he prefers."

I stared at her. "How do you always come through like this?"

She winked. "I'm your fairy godmother

I grinned through the remnants of my tears. "Let's get to work."

Later that night

The house was quiet again, but it didn't feel quite as heavy now.

I stood by the little kitchen island flipping through the folder Kiki gave me. Notes, client preferences, high-profile guests, even his allergy profile. The man was as private as a vault, but someone clearly kept records.

I ran my fingers across the list of ingredients. My mind was already building flavors. Dashi with smoked ginger. A marinade that whispered instead of screamed. A slow-building heat. A plate that told him: I'm not here by accident.

And not just him.

The house. The opportunity. The money.

I wasn't here by luck.

I was here because I showed up.

I padded to the window, arms folded over my chest, and stared at the skyline again. Seoul was still humming in the distance, glowing soft and fast.

Tomorrow, I would walk through those doors again.

Not as a girl hoping to be picked.

Not as an accident.

But as a woman with something to offer.

I wasn't going to beg anyone to believe in me.

I would cook. That's all I ever had to do.

And Ren Sion?

In the midst of the celebration and preparation my mind was still on Ren Sion, calculating how I'll avenge my rejection.