Luhan had done his research on Saint Pierre Culinary School, thanks to the wonders of Google, so that he’d get a preliminary look of what he’s going to be faced with for—yeesh, he shuddered—a year. A year of his life wasted on learning how to chop and boil and mince and stuff. What would Eunice and his other friends say? He could’ve already moved out and worked in the company already by then. Luhan knew he couldn’t fight his Papa. You did his bidding, no other options, period.

Saint Pierre was an exclusively all-boys’ school for men ages 18 and up, but it usually comprised of men no older than thirty years old. The school website’s photos featured poker-faced teens in whites that chopped onions like it was a heart transplant operation, along with grounds that sure as hell did not look like a ‘culinary school.’ It looked like a chateau built by a King Louis the Something. The juvenile male species, in general, weren’t known for their grace in cooking, much less spoiled rich boys, so Luhan was surprised at how the grounds didn’t look like accidents in the kitchen didn’t happen at all.

There were seven classes in each of the 4 courses, with an average of 40 students in each class, so in total, there was a student population of about a thousand or so students. That didn’t count the staff, teachers, and the like. Not bad for a culinary school. Everyone was required to be clean-shaven (which Luhan didn’t have any problems with, sadly), finished high school, and, in an indirect way, to be the son of a wealthy person, due to the crazy tuition fee.

“Wow,” he murmured, scrolling down. There were four courses a student could take—Basic Culinary, Advanced Culinary, Gastronomic Studies, and Pâtisserie. The last one caught Luhan’s eye. The word rang a bell somewhere. He thought it meant baking or sweets or something. The last three required a year in Basic Culinary, unless one had passed a placement test. His Papa had signed him up for Basic Culinary, thank God. Luhan could make cauliflower taste like the back of the freezer, no kidding. Miss Fong, their head cook who verbally abuses the private chef, had personally banned him from the kitchen.

He was that bad at cooking.

Place him in junior college, med school, law school, whatever, Luhan would not care, but the kitchen was a place he had not dared to explore since his mother died. Since then, he had been raised by his father with an iron fist, whipping him to become a real man. Playing with dolls, squealing, pouting, wearing pink clothes, even crying, goddammit, and his Papa would glare at him. Filing nails, putting on lipbalm, giggling, little things that were just the slightest bit girlish and his father would scold him to stop. A real man doesn’t (insert your favorite slightly effeminate activity).

Why cooking? His Papa frowned upon tasks such as those, so why did he enroll Luhan in Saint Pierre?

The specifics had all been given to him by Miss Mangchi, Papa’s secretary. Saint Pierre, or most commonly referred to as Pierre’s, will be his home for ten months, how exciting, right? He would be staying at Unit 217, and sharing the—Miss Mangchi didn’t know if it would be an apartment or a flat—with a fellow student. Why can’t he get a unit for himse—No questions asked, dearie, your Papa arranged it just so. Food, lodging, clothes, and all the necessities are all paid for in advanced, so all the credit cards would be cut.

Luhan freaked out. No money, no life was a favorite Chinese adage. Mo tin mo meung, in Siyin.

Mangchi continued prattling on in her high, almost falsetto chatter, and in the background, Luhan could hear her typing away in an irregular staccato. Car will be taken away, too, because there was just really nowhere to drive to, which means that Luhan was not to go anywhere farther than a distance he could walk to.

This is like getting a post-graduation grounding! How exciting, right? Luhan wanted to grit at that lady at the end of the line. But he can’t. Mangchi would babble on him to Papa.

Miss Mangchi, Papa’s secretary, is usually the one talking to Luhan on behalf of his father in terms of the particulars of his orders. Lu Jian didn’t have much time on his hands, so naturally, he wouldn’t waste it on talking to his son, and Luhan had determined that fact from a very young age. It was always Mangchi who relayed messages that Papa should’ve been saying, with her annoying voice and her smacking chewing gum and that tapping of keys in the background, saying, Your Papa wants you to attend this, sweetie… Your Papa says you need to explain why you got a rank two, darlingheart… Your Papa says good job at getting MVP, honeypie, but you need to improve your grades.

Luhan petulantly wished she would Satan’s when she goes to hell.

Wonder if she’d still call me darlingheart when I tell her that she looks like a bad wallpaper job with all those facelifts she does—tight in some places, saggy at the rest, thought Luhan, sipping a mug of sweet almond broth insisted upon by Lao-lao, which was actually quite good. Not that he knew what the medical effect of it would be. Most likely virility, he dryly thought, which made him cough a bit. Christ, what the hell, that conversation had scarred him for life.

Luhan had locked himself up in his room, the shades down with the only light source coming from his laptop. He had bundled himself up with comforters stolen from the guest rooms, cocooning himself up even though it was over 90° F outside, but that’s what the AC is for. This is the second to the last day of his free life, before the chaffeur drives him up to Pierre’s on Monday, so why not waste it on practicing a wealthy variation of monkhood, right?

He sighed, meaning to just duck his head under the layers of comforters and fall asleep, when his brand-spanking-new phone cried a harsh ring. Oh, come on, who is it, now? he thought grouchily.

It was Eunice Kwon, his girlfriend, or at least, he liked to think of her as his girlfriend. They really weren’t that serious, but they mess around, kiss, date, stuff that he wouldn’t do with a normal female friend. But he damned is sure that he wouldn’t marry Eunice, much more get her pregnant. In the two years they’ve been together, they hadn’t even gone all the way.

How many more annoying women so I have to talk to today? Two was more than enough, he inwardly grumbled but still answered the call. Where the hell did she get my new number, anyway?

Mangchi, who else. That nasty .

“Hello,” he mumbled, struggling desperately to keep the bad temper out of his voice. Please leave me alone and call me when I want you to, which is about twice a year. Have a nice day, bleep.

“Lu baby!” Eunice squealed, and Lu baby had to cringe away from the phone. Christ, calm the down, girl. “I just found a totally chic café, and we really need to try it!”

“I’m not in the mood, Eun,” muttered Luhan, wiggling deeper into the heap of comforters as if to establish his extended stay inside his warm, snug cocoon. That meant hell to the ing no, woman. He sipped some more of that sweet almond broth. “I have a hangover from Jongin’s party.”

“Aww, poor baby,” cooed Eunice, most likely pouting at the end of the line, cute as ever. It was one of the reasons why Luhan dated her, but after two years, she’d been so cute it was