Evelia’s “maid plan” had been running for who knew how many days. Every day, she’d hover around Arman under the guise of “I’m your personal maid,” delivering all three meals without fail. But after tasting the stomach medicine soup herself? She never brought that hellish concoction to him again.

“Master, you must eat it all up today too, okay? ♡”

Today was no different. That shoujo novel had truly given her a “thorough lesson.” She mimicked the adorable maid’s actions and lines to a tee—but her expression and tone remained unchanged. She still delivered those sugary words with a cold face and stiff voice.

“…”

Arman, meanwhile, was wondering what was up with this girl.

She seemed like a completely different person. At first, there was clear distance between them. Just days later—how did she change so fast?

Yet not really. At the very least, her utterly motionless poker face stayed rigid as brick.

“Master, today’s special is golden omurice~ I made it myself~”

Evelia lifted the lid. Inside sat a perfectly standard maid-style omurice. Just like any themed café, the golden egg blanket bore a ketchup-drawn heart.

She’d even tried sketching a face—but Arman ate little, leaving no room on the rice. So she dumped most scribbles onto the plate. Too many strokes blurred into a messy blob. At first glance, the crimson pool made the omurice look half-submerged in blood.

*Is this omurice… or ketchup soup?*

Arman looked up, puzzled.

“Did the omurice get hurt? It’s bleeding so much.”

He gripped the spoon awkwardly. The swallow he forced down came from tension, not appetite. Still, he couldn’t skip the dry joke.

“Master, won’t you try Evelia’s homemade cooking? ♡”

“…I’m not really hungry,” Arman hesitated, glancing at her.

Mentally, blood-red food didn’t scare him—child’s play for someone who’d eaten raw meat. But that thick ketchup layer? He could already taste the assault.

(Still ten thousand times better than the stomach soup.)

He couldn’t volunteer to torture his taste buds. Overly sweet? Overly sour? No thanks. His stomach was fragile enough—no need to wreck his tongue too. Permanent taste loss felt dangerously close.

“Maaaster~~~”

Textbook analysis called it a sweet, coquettish plea. But her stiff tone made it sound like nails scraping glass to Arman.

“I went through so much trouble… Won’t you take just one bite?”

Evelia had clearly studied the novel’s description:

*“She gently furrowed her brows, blinked helplessly, sparkles in her light eyes, tears welling like a wronged little rabbit yearning for approval.”*

But Evelia hadn’t cried in years. Didn’t know “wronged.” Didn’t get why a tasty rabbit was pitiful. So she only managed “furrowed brows.”

Result? She glared at unmoving-spoon Arman with utter disdain and sternness—like she’d punch him and snap, “Eat it or don’t, I don’t care.”

That look pressed on Arman.

Theoretically, he shouldn’t fear it. But Evelia was a professional assassin. A furrowed brow sharpened her gaze like blades. Her intent was coquetry; he felt pure killing intent.

Ever since the stomach soup incident, every visit made him wonder: *Is this the kill attempt?* She always brought some “creative” surprise.

Even now, he suspected poison. His guard never dropped.

“Master… you really won’t eat it?”

Her icy tone + expression = death threat.

“Master, you—”

“Eve, open up—ah~”

Before she could recall more novel lines, Arman struck first. Mimicking her feeding pose—one hand holding the ketchup-drenched spoon, the other cupped beneath—he offered it to her.

“…?”

Same silent confusion Arman once had. But stuck in “coquettish mode,” her frown lingered. Expression shifted from *“I’ll punch you”* to *“Are you insane?”*

(Though that wasn’t her intent.)

“Eve, I can’t finish this. Help me share some?”

Arman smiled gently, waiting. His acting? Hundreds of times smoother than hers.

“…”

Evelia paused. Didn’t grasp his move. But as a “dutiful, adorable maid who obeys her master,” she complied. Opened her mouth. Swallowed the steaming bite.

The intense sweet-sour burst made her shudder. Arman instantly knew the flavor’s brutality. *But she ate it—non-poisonous. Perfect chance.*

“Here, Eve—ah~”

“Mmm…”

He kept feeding. She kept eating. Novel taste intrigued her; ketchup texture wasn’t bad. Bite after bite, he subtly shifted positions—until they’d swapped seats. Evelia now sat in his chair. Arman gently pushed the half-finished omurice toward her.

“Eve, can you finish the rest?”

“Of course.” Oblivious, she took the spoon seriously.

“Then please, our little Eve, finish it all up, okay?” Arman sounded exactly like someone coaxing a child.

“Mm, no problem, Master. Leave it to me.” And just like that—she fell for it.

“Alright, I’ve got things to do. Take your time eating, Eve.”

“Mm, okay, Master.”

Arman closed the door softly, smiling. Then swiftly escaped.

Behind him, Evelia ate earnestly. Ketchup’s sharp sourness made her shudder repeatedly—but she obeyed “Master’s” order completely. Finished every grain. Even seemed to enjoy it.

—*Huh. I guess I’ve got some cooking talent after all.*

Meanwhile, Arman marched straight to the kitchen, not looking back.

“Please,” he told the chefs firmly, “under no circumstances let Evelia into the kitchen again.”