Margaret's mouth continued to move slowly—as if involuntarily decelerated—as she chewed the piece of chocolate cake she had just placed inside.
Her gaze was cast downward, fixed intently on the thin white plate before her; the remnants of the crumbs and the remaining slice of cake lay there, undisturbed.
But Margaret wasn't truly seeing any of it.
The look in her eyes was vacant, floating in that distinct way—like someone who appeared to be drowning in profound thought, when in reality, she was trapped between two states: half-lost in a daze and half-conscious of the world around her.
Both of her hands, each clutching a fork and a small knife, trembled faintly.
That tremor was not without reason.
In her right hand, the lingering sensation remained vividly clear—the touch of warm lips, the brief yet deliberate pressure of a tongue, and the faint graze of teeth that left no wound. That same hand… the very hand that had once been touched by Frankestein in an identical manner.
Even though Chase had earlier offered an apology—masking his actions as a mere jest, kissing her hand without permission as if it were a common habit whenever he met a fan—and Margaret knew that.
But that didn't make the feeling currently heavy in her chest any lighter. No, far from it.
To her, the act was too excessive, too intimate, too real to be dismissed as just a joke.
And what made her feel even more foolish was the fact that she hadn't pulled her hand away. Instead, she had let it all happen, even though Chase had told her not to be shy and to just act as if everything were normal.
When Chase had asked her to think of anything she wanted to say or ask—minutes ago, before she had drowned in her own thoughts—her eyes would occasionally flicker toward the bouquet of white roses and the white tote bag filled with expensive chocolates he had given her.
But she found herself completely unable to focus.
In truth, just a moment ago, a multitude of questions had been lined up, waiting for their turn to be asked.
Meanwhile, Chase—who was also chewing his cake—never once released his gaze from Margaret. He knew exactly what was racing through the mind of the girl before him; he knew it all too well.
He nearly let out a stifled chuckle, remembering what he had just done—kissing Margaret's hand. That simple act had successfully rendered her silent, perhaps confused, perhaps losing her footing, like someone who suddenly found themselves not knowing where to stand.
And without him realizing it, it made his blood rush faster—warm and hurried. It was a blossoming euphoria that he had found difficult to control all along, nearly making him appear like a madman on the verge of losing restraint, simply because he was so overwhelmed with joy at finally obtaining what he had desired for so long.
The few seconds of silence hanging between them finally began to make Chase feel a bit restless.
He set down the small knife he'd been using to scoop the chocolate cake, then—with a slow, noiseless motion—he pulled a tissue from in front of him and wiped the corner of his lips, which felt stained with cake crumbs.
Throughout it all, his gaze never wavered; it remained fixed on Margaret. Afterward, he folded both arms atop the table and leaned his face slightly forward.
"Margaret?"
The voice glided out slowly, as soft as a stray cotton fiber falling through still air, yet enough to make the girl's shoulders give a small, sharp flinch.
As their gazes finally locked, Chase tilted his head—a simple gesture that radiated an air of undivided attention.
"Why are you so quiet? …Are you angry with me because I've made you feel embarrassed?"
"If that is the case, please allow me to apologize once more."
"I admit, I often lose control because I get too caught up in my work. After all, this is the first time I've actually met you… So, I acted spontaneously without realizing it—simply because I've become so accustomed to doing so with my fans during fansign events."
If his first apology earlier had been delivered with the expression of someone merely joking, this time was different.
The light in Chase's eyes and the lines of his face gradually dimmed, as if, with each passing second, he was truly coming to terms with his mistake. There was a glimmer of guilt there—sincere and convincing—though in truth, it was nothing more than a mask he wore deliberately to deepen Margaret's trust in him.
Deep down, he was savoring every shift in her expression: the slight startle whenever he spoke, the brief jolts of nerves she couldn't hide, and the layers of confusion unfolding within her. All of it brought him a sense of comfort—even an overwhelming joy—because he knew exactly how much power his presence and his voice held over her.
Margaret nearly choked as Chase's voice suddenly slipped into the gaps of her daydream and her growing unease.
With a slightly hurried motion, she reached for the glass of iced chocolate Chase had ordered for her, her fingers trembling faintly as they touched the cold surface. She took a slow sip, desperately trying to steady her racing heart.
After swallowing, her eyes met Chase's once more. Her gaze was still unsteady, not yet fully focused.
"N-no… it's not like that."
"I'm not angry. It's just… I still feel a bit embarrassed. But, I'm fine."
"Oppa doesn't need to apologize again. I heard you earlier, and I… I understand."
"Anyone would surely act the same way if it's become a habit. If anything, I'm the one who should apologize… for staying silent for so long."
A thin smile stretched across the corners of her lips. It wasn't a smile that reflected the sincerity of her words, but rather a glaring stiffness and awkwardness—a clear sign of her struggle to remain composed.
Chase let out a slow, measured breath, maintaining a faint, cryptic smile at the corners of his lips.
He leaned back against the headrest of his chair, letting his body sink slightly as if the distance could grant him more space to think. He raised both arms slowly before finally crossing them over his chest.
"Alright."
"Since you're feeling better… what about your questions, Margaret?"
His gaze shifted, lingering on the bouquet of blue roses and the white tote bag perched by Margaret's arm. His eyes hardened, his brows knitting tightly together, as if those two gifts—the very ones he had given to Margaret—were staring back at him in a threatening manner.
"Don't you have many questions right now?"
"Perhaps you want to know… how I could possibly know your name. And perhaps about my purpose for meeting you…"
"Or why I know about that sandwich."
"Ah, I know… you surely want to know about that little white puppy, don't you?"
As if struck by a sudden jolt of electricity, Margaret's back and shoulders stiffened the moment the words "little white puppy" escaped Chase's lips.
Her scattered focus began to sharpen. Her expression, which had been radiating remnants of nerves, confusion, and stiffness—like someone fumbling for a path in the dark—slowly shifted into something far more serious.
The noisy thoughts that had previously filled her head, teeming with strange and wild possibilities about what Chase had just done to her, suddenly froze. They were replaced by the string of questions she had tried to organize earlier, which now stood out with crystal clarity in her mind.
Both of her hands on the table—in a subtle motion—clenched into tight fists. Her voice changed—becoming more serious, slightly urgent, laced with curiosity, yet remaining controlled and polite—as she finally spoke.
"How do you know me, Chase Oppa… and how do you even know my name?"