The golden glow of the Manila skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows does little to warm the interior of the penthouse. To Milia, the city looks like a collection of cold, hard diamonds—beautiful, sharp, and exactly how she likes her world to be.
She sits at the sleek, white marble kitchen island, a glass of expensive Pinot Noir in one hand and her smartphone in the other. She's scrolling through her latest Instagram post—a teaser for her upcoming concert—reading the thousands of comments praising her beauty and talent. This is her reality. This is where she belongs. Not in some dusty marriage pact from a century ago.
Arlen went out of the quest room and quietly walks to the kitchen. He made sure to go through the back entrance just as she instructed. "Miss Milia. Can I partake in the food at the pantry and fridge?"
Milia's head snaps toward the sound of his voice, her wine glass pausing halfway to her lips. She watches him emerge from the back entrance, moving with that irritating, ghost-like caution. Even in the dim, ambient lighting of the kitchen, his androgynous features look hauntingly delicate—like a porcelain doll someone left in a dark room.
She sets her glass down on the marble island with a sharp *clack*, her eyes tracking him with a mix of boredom and disdain.
"I believe I told you to use the back entrance to stay 'out' of my sight, not to treat it as a revolving door for your stomach," she says, her voice echoing coldly against the high-end appliances. She slides off her barstool, the silk of her dress whispering against her skin.
She walks toward the massive, built-in refrigerator, her heels sounding like a judge's gavel on the floor. She flings the door open, the interior lighting casting a clinical, blue-white glow over her sharp features.
"Look at this, Arlen," she gestures vaguely at the organized rows of cold-pressed juices, gourmet salads, and imported cheeses. "This is a curated lifestyle. Not a buffet for houseguests who weren't invited."
She pulls out a container of expensive organic yogurt and tosses it onto the counter toward him, not caring if it slides too far.
"Take whatever is in the 'Leftovers' bin or the lower pantry shelves. But let me be incredibly clear: the truffle oils, the vintage wines, and the Wagyu in the freezer are strictly off-limits. You are here to exist, not to feast on my dime."
"Thank you Miss Milia. They're more than enough." Arlen says, bowing his head gesturing appreciation and thankfulness.
She leans against the counter, crossing her arms and looking him up and down. The way he stands there, so submissive and small, makes her want to provoke a reaction—any reaction—other than that hollow politeness.
"Tell me, does your family's 'honor' feel satisfied now? Begging for scraps in the kitchen of the woman who wants nothing to do with you?" she sneers, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. "Does it taste better when it's charity?"
She doesn't wait for an answer, turning to grab her wine glass again. "Take your 'spoils' and get back to your wing. The smell of... whatever detergent you use is starting to ruin the aroma of my Pinot Noir."
Arlen's face flushed subtly in embarrassment as he imperceptibly clutched the hem of his sweater. His eyes looking down at the fabric of his clothing, thinking if he actually does emit an unpleasant smell.
Milia watches him, her eyes tracing the subtle flush that creeps up his neck and the way his slender fingers knot into the hem of his oversized, clearly non-designer sweater. The sight of his genuine distress doesn't stir a single drop of guilt in her; instead, it only deepens her irritation. To her, his vulnerability isn't endearing—it's an eyesore, a glaring reminder of how ill-suited he is for the world she occupies.
"Don't bother," she says, her voice sharp and dry like the wine she's sipping. She takes a slow, graceful step toward him, forcing him to either shrink back or maintain that uncomfortable proximity. "It's not that you're 'dirty', Arlen. It's that you're... ordinary. That sweater, that soap, that pathetic little 'please and thank you' routine... it all smells like a life I have no intention of ever understanding."
She reaches out, not to touch him this time, but to point a manicured finger toward the hallway.
"The scent of the mundane is far more offensive to me than actual dust. It's the smell of a 'pact' I never signed and a future I refuse to accept."
She watches him look down at his clothes, her lip curling in a faint, cruel sneer. "You look like a Victorian orphan lost in a gallery. It's exhausting just to look at you. Do you even have a spine, or did your grandfather trade that away too when he sold you off to my family?"
She takes another sip of her wine, the dim light of the kitchen highlighting the sharp angles of her face, making her look like a cold, porcelain goddess.
"Take your yogurt and your bruised ego and get out. I can't have you standing here while I eat; you're ruining the aesthetic of my kitchen. And for heaven's sake, try to walk more quietly. You're like a ghost that won't stop rattling its chains."
She turns her back to him, leaning her elbows on the marble counter as she stares at her phone, effectively erasing him from her space.
"Close the door behind you. And if that cat starts shedding in the hallway, I'm billing you for a professional deep-clean. Go."
Milia scoffs, a sharp, jagged sound that cuts through the hum of the high-end refrigerator. She watches with a sort of perverse fascination as he clutches the hem of his sweater, his head bowed as if he's trying to disappear into the floorboards. The flush on his pale skin is obvious, highlighting the delicate, almost doll-like cast of his features.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't start sniffing yourself like a stray," she says, her voice thick with derision. She swirls the dark red liquid in her glass, watching the legs of the wine coat the crystal. "It's not that you stink in a literal sense, Arlen. It's just the scent of... 'ordinary'. And it's coming from someone who's supposedly an Adelaide. I smell manipulation and theatrics. A tactic to soften me up."
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving him. The way he stands there, so wounded by a comment about laundry soap, makes her blood boil. She wants him to snap. She wants him to tell her to go to hell so she has a reason to throw him out tonight. But instead, he just stands there, radiating that suffocating politeness.
"And stop that," she snaps, pointing her glass at him. "The 'kicked puppy' look. It's manipulative and it won't work on me. I'm an artist; I know a performance when I see one. You're trying to make me feel like the villain in your little tragedy, aren't you? Well, newsflash: I 'am' the villain. I'm the woman whose life you're currently haunting."
Arlen shook his head frantically as he tries to explain himself. "I'm not manipulating you, Miss Milia."
She sets her wine glass down on the island with a definitive *thud* and leans forward, her sharp, perfect features illuminated by the overhead designer pendant lights. Her eyes bore into him, devoid of any warmth, seeking out a flicker of defiance that never comes.
"You really think this will work?" she asks, her voice a low, dangerous murmur that barely masks the simmering rage beneath. "This meek, 'poor me' routine? Do you believe for one second that I'm going to fall for it? My life is a stage, Arlen. I've seen better acting from amateur dramatics. Save your simpering for someone who cares."
She straightens up abruptly, pushing herself away from the counter, a dismissive flick of her wrist accompanying her next command. "Now, take your pathetic supper and go back to your designated corner. And don't ever approach me like this again. The only thing I want to hear from you is absolute silence until this trial is over."
Her gaze sweeps over him one last time, a cold, clinical assessment. "You're a temporary inconvenience. Nothing more. Don't forget it." With a final, withering glare, she turns her back, effectively dismissing him from her presence as she walks toward the living room, leaving him alone amidst the cold gleam of her expensive kitchen.
Arlen wants to explain himself. To somehow defend that he doesn't have any bad intentions but his words died in his throat. He politely took the meal Milia threw towards him. After one last bow, he returned to his room.
Milia hears the small, pathetic flutter of his attempt to explain, followed by the quiet resignation when his words fail him. She doesn't even bother to turn around. His silence, his acceptance of the discarded food, the submissive bow—it all paints a picture of complete surrender, precisely what she wants, and yet, it fills her with an even deeper, more profound contempt.
A soft, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips. Good. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. His inability to defend himself, his willingness to accept her cruelty without a single spark of defiance, only reinforces her conviction that he is weak, a spineless shadow who poses no real threat to her carefully constructed life.
She continues her walk to the living room, deliberately not glancing back, not acknowledging his departure or his bow. To do so would be to acknowledge his presence, and that was the last thing she wanted. She heard the soft shuffle of his retreat, the faint click of the guest room door, and a wave of manufactured calm washed over her.
Finally.
Milia settles onto the plush velvet sofa in her living room, picking up her phone. She opens her Instagram again, scrolling through the adoring comments, allowing the digital affirmation to wash away the lingering annoyance of his pathetic presence. The city lights glitter outside her panoramic windows, a dazzling, vibrant tapestry. Her world. Unblemished, once again, by the ghost-like man in the guest wing.
He was nothing. A temporary smudge on her perfect canvas. Five months. That was all. She just had to endure, and he would disappear as quietly as he had arrived. The sooner she forgot he was even in the building, the better.
Inside the quiet of the guest room, Arlen is standing absent mindedly outside the balcony bathed in the evening lights of the city, holding the container of leftovers Mikha tossed at him. Dex nudges it's head toward his leg trying to get his attention with a soft meow.
"I guess it's dinner time for you too, Dex." Arlen states, crouching down to scoop up the feline.
He placed Dex near it's food bowl and opened a can of wet cat food. Arlen began eating the leftovers with Dex as his company.
Milia remains on the plush velvet sofa, her gaze fixed on the glowing screen of her phone, but her mind is far from the adoring comments. The silence from the guest wing, finally achieved, feels less like peace and more like a fragile, temporary truce. She tries to immerse herself in her social media, her manager's latest emails, but a phantom irritation still prickles at the edges of her awareness.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. She thinks, a curl of her lip betraying her inner turmoil. The 'humble houseguest' act. He really thinks that will get him somewhere.
She scrolls past another perfectly filtered photo of herself, her reflection in the dark screen momentarily catching her eye. Her features are sharp, defined by ambition and an iron will. She couldn't fathom a life where she accepted such indignities with a bow and a simpering smile. It was an insult to her very being.
"He's not even a man," she mutters under her breath, taking another slow, contemplative sip of her Pinot Noir. The bitter taste matches her mood perfectly. "Just a ghost haunting my penthouse. A nuisance."
She closes her eyes for a moment, pressing her manicured fingers against her temples, trying to physically banish the image of Arlen's docile face and that repulsive orange cat. Five months. The thought echoes like a countdown to freedom, a promise she clings to desperately. She was Milia Madrigal. She owned this city, this stage, this life. And no archaic pact or pathetic, subservient stranger was going to take that away from her.
She opens her eyes, glaring at the distant hallway that leads to the guest wing, as if her sheer force of will could push him further away, erase him entirely.
Just stay in your room, Arlen Adelaide. Stay quiet. And for the love of God, don't let that thing shed its disgusting fur anywhere near my side of the penthouse.
The thought of that cat, Dex, lurking somewhere in her pristine home sends a fresh wave of disgust through her. She stands abruptly, setting her wine glass down with a definitive *thud*.
"I need to call Liam," she declares to the empty living room, as if to solidify her true reality, her true allegiances. "This... distraction is intolerable." She grabs her phone, already dialing, turning her back to the silent, dark hallway, determined to reassert control over her own narrative, her own life.