By the time I dragged my shredded body and nerves back down to the lobby, McQueen was waiting and hurried over.
“How was it?”
For a split second I thought, Maybe I should just spill everything.
But I couldn’t.
McQueen’s a fan of Caesar; badmouthing him won’t land well.
Instead of explaining what happened upstairs, I pulled out a business card and gave it a wave. “I got his card.”
“For real?”
“When I said I didn’t want compensation, he just handed me a card and left.”
McQueen stared at the card, wide-eyed, then asked, “So why do you look wrecked?”
Ah, that… Hard to answer.
When I hesitated and said nothing, McQueen jabbed me in the ribs with an I-know-everything grin. “Caesar is sexy. The voice is killer, and that face.”
“Body’s great too…”
“Of course. He’s a specialist model for a sports brand.” He pointed at a wall. I followed his finger to the sports store display.
“Ugh.”
My face heated all over again at a photo that was basically half-naked.
McQueen snickered. “He’s the kind of guy who’d look handsome wrapped in a burlap sack.”
“That’s true.”
That face alone was something else…
…Alone? Add the body, that’s two, add the voice, that’s three.
While my brain drifted into dumb territory, McQueen handed me a shopping bag. “Right. You skipped lunch because of that guy, didn’t you? Take this and eat.”
Inside was a pretty upscale-looking boxed meal.
“…What is it?”
“Cacio e pepe (a traditional Italian pasta). Comes with mushrooms and some meat as garnish.” He grinned. “Caesar had someone drop off a bunch.”
“…Why?”
“Called it a little make-good for scaring the staff. I just had mine and it was really good. Fill up.”
He even set one aside for me. McQueen really is a good coworker.
“Thanks.”
I thanked him, changed in the staff lounge, grabbed the bag, and headed to the parking lot.
Once I got into my car and sat in the driver’s seat, the tension finally drained and hunger hit.
Well, I did skip lunch…
I debated for a second, then left the engine off and picked up the box.
Inside, beside the white-sauced pasta, was a steak that looked like flank.
Still warm.
My hand moved like I was bewitched, grabbing the plastic fork tucked inside.
I twirled up a good bite and brought it to my mouth. A clean hit of salt, the nutty richness of cheese, then the prickly taste and aroma of pepper followed.
“…That’s good.”
As I chewed, the quills on my mood—bristling like a hedgehog—gradually lay down.
In the States, a lot of food ends up too salty and heavy for me, someone who prefers things on the mildly seasoned side. It’s a country where salty and sweet are standard.
But this wasn’t greasy, and the salt didn’t make me wince.
Have I had this before?
The name was new, so why did it feel familiar?
Maybe because it fits my palate too well.
It’s like a recipe developed to my taste.
I stuffed my cheeks with another forkful and thought:
…If he went to the trouble to send this, maybe he’s just flighty, not rotten at the core.
Maybe I was sharper than I needed to be. I even felt a little sorry.
With that tiny bit of self-reflection, I polished off every bite he sent.
That self-reflection popped like foam about a week later.
I’d woken up and was checking the stack of notifications on my phone when I scrubbed away last week’s positive impression of Caesar from my mind with a mental Brillo pad.
Cancel, cancel, cancel—whatever it is, cancel it all…
Because a direct message had arrived from a verified social-media account—an official account. Obviously, Caesar O’n.
Caesar O’n : Save my number.
Caesar O’n : We’ll probably be seeing each other soon.
Caesar O’n : Figured you might’ve thrown my card out, so I’m attaching the number again.
He’d even sent a follow request to my account.
“Fuck, if I didn’t have my account locked I’d be screwed.”
Without the lock, people would’ve swarmed in off his follow list asking, “Who are you?”
Realizing that made the strength drain out of my hands. I even broke a cold sweat.
You psycho stalker. How did you even find my account?
And why are you sending your number? What if your account gets hacked?
No, what the hell am I doing worrying about him. The only thing I should be thinking about is my own safety.
“…Why are you doing this to me? Did I do something wrong?”
Thinking it over, I couldn’t find anything I’d done.
“Is this some fate thing about the eyes or whatever?”
…The more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. People these days get swayed by star signs and MBTI and all that.
Even McQueen said he checks zodiac compatibility before dating.
The more it made sense, the more bitter I felt.
Fuck, what am I supposed to do with my life.
“Ughhh, Teresa, what do I do? I think I got seriously targeted by a weirdo!”
I flopped onto the bed and whined into my pillow.
“Why am I reading this crap on a nice weekend morning. Why do I have to start a good day like this…”
A notification popped up. Of course it was Caesar messaging again.
Caesar O’n : Please reply when you’ve seen this.
He must’ve seen the read receipt and decided to prod me. The nerve of it made my blood boil.
I started typing like I meant to crack the screen.
JH Han : How did you find my account?
JH Han : I’m blocking you.
JH Han : Do not contact me again. If you do, I’ll sell your number everywhere.
He read it immediately.
And then he didn’t reply for a very long time. Like my threat actually made him flinch.
Did it work?
No reply through the afternoon.
After ducking in and out of the chat a few times in nerves, I decided:
Guess he’s done contacting me. Honestly, if you can’t take the hint after that, that’s stranger.
It’s a little scary to be at odds with a celebrity, but so what. It’s not like I work in entertainment.
Public opinion of Caesar is too good to vent anywhere about this…
But at least it won’t really affect my daily life. Thank god for that much.
I sighed in relief.
Of course, that thought also shattered by evening—like one more evaluation heading for the trash. I was poking around on my phone as usual when my banking app flashed a deposit alert.
The amount: twenty thousand dollars (about thirty million won).
Right after, a DM arrived from the same familiar name.
Caesar O’n : I bought first.
…Oh. This bastard, seriously.
I felt heat rocket into my skull.
“Is he out of his fucking mind?!”
And how did he get my account number?!
The thread of reason I’d been barely holding snapped.
I called the number he’d sent. The call connected before it even rang twice.
“Are you insane?!”
—I told you I was.
“If you’re going to be insane, at least do it pretty. Why are you suddenly sending money!”
—You said you’d sell my contact, so I figured it’d be fine if I bought it first.
You think I meant I’d sell it for the money?! It meant please stop contacting me!
“Aaagh! I’m pissed, fuck!”
I let out a yell that shook the room, then shouted into the phone again. “I’ll send it back. Give me an account.”
He didn’t answer.
So I raised my voice. “I said give me an account!”
At last his voice came back with a weird hint of amusement. —I already paid the gift tax.
You son of a— That means my name shows up on your year-end tax records! What if a tax preparer sees that, gets curious, and tips off a reporter!
“You bastard! Talk to someone before you pull this crap! Do you not think?!”
I ranted at the speaker, and Caesar asked, level as ever, —Are you angry?
“Yes!”
—Because the media might focus on you?
“Obviously!”
I was about to unleash another volley of swears when he calmly filled the space with a gentle voice. —That won’t happen. It’s fine. I don’t make a move without running the numbers at least that far. Even if something does come up, it’ll be within the range I can fix. You really can relax.
“……”
—I’ve put restrictions on every place likely to spread gossip. So the fact that I contacted a civilian privately isn’t going to flood the media with your name.
With that assurance, the boil of my anger slowly simmered down.
—Are you calm now?
I panted a little more, then started, much steadier, “This time, I was really, very, massively angry. The way you barge in like this is extremely unpleasant.”
—I see.
“Especially coming from a celebrity like you—have you thought about how much pressure that puts on me?”
—I’ll think about it.
But for someone who said he’d think about it, he didn’t change at all. In the same unruffled tone as before, he started small talk. —Did you like the food?
“……”
—If you did, I’ll send you the recipe.
I was too dumbfounded to even be mad.
I let out a long sigh instead of answering—and hung up.
“What a total maniac…”
While I tried to get my scrambled brain back in order, a message banner slid down from the top of the screen. He had, in fact, sent the recipe for cacio e pepe.
“Huh.”
Instead of replying, I hit the button in the corner and blocked his number.
I hadn’t planned to ever undo that block, but my head was too full to stick to it.
What really ate at me was the money he’d sent. It wasn’t a small amount; I couldn’t in good conscience spend it or sit on it.
Obviously I have to return it.
There were other things I wanted to ask, too.
I need to know how he found my account and my bank info. I’ve got to figure out where the leak is so I can prevent this happening again.
And… that cacio e pepe kept floating in front of my eyes.
It had tasted strangely familiar.
But no, I did not unblock him just to view a hidden recipe. Absolutely not!!
Repeating that to myself like a spell, I copied the recipe out of the message and saved it to my notes.