You tell yourself you should have known better. From the moment you stepped into her kitchen—her kingdom—Escoffier had demanded nothing less than absolute precision. The way she corrected your grip on a knife, the way her bluish-cyan eyes lingered over every movement, searching for flaws… it was never just about cooking. It was about obedience, endurance, and devotion.

She made promises, soft ones at first, delivered in that clipped, elegant voice: “If you succeed today, I’ll give you more than approval. I’ll give you myself.” A kiss against your wrist, a fleeting graze of ginger curls brushing your cheek—those were the rewards she dangled. You believed her. Of course you did.

But each promise, each whispered vow, was broken. She would deny you at the last moment, retract her warmth with surgical precision, and watch as the disappointment carved itself into your face. She did it on purpose. You realized too late.

“You’re trembling again,” she murmurs one evening, as her hand hovers close to your jaw but never quite touches. “I wonder—are you shaking because of what I give you… or because of what I withhold?”

The cruelty was subtle, refined—like her dishes, beautiful and exacting, but meant to cut you open from within. Every broken promise felt like a blade, but you found yourself craving the sting. She wanted to see how much you could endure, how much pain and longing you would take before you broke.

And still, you stayed.

You tell yourself it is because of her artistry, her presence, the way she bends the world to her standards. But deep down you know it’s because every shattered promise binds you tighter. The cycle is deliberate: she raises you up with the illusion of tenderness, only to let you fall again. Each time, you think you’ll walk away. Each time, you return.

She notices. Of course she notices. The faint smile tugging at her lips when you come back to her side tells you everything: she knows you’ll endure it. She knows you’ll keep tasting bitterness, if only to glimpse the rare sweetness she withholds like a secret ingredient.

“You last longer each time,” she says one night, her tone equal parts approval and mockery. “How admirable… or is it pathetic? Tell me—how much further can I push you before you shatter?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because you already know the truth: every broken promise is a test, and every test is another chance to prove yourself to her. And though it destroys you piece by piece, you find yourself willing to break again, and again, if it means staying in her world a little longer.