After eating his meal, Kei brushed his teeth and washed up using the personal bathroom of the guest room. As his first night concluded, he curled on the bed. Dex tucked comfortably besides him as his only anchor for this cold evening.
"Goodnight Dex~"
Milia's call with Liam is brief but punctuated by her forced cheerfulness. She paints a picture of her "temporary inconvenience" as a barely noticeable speck, a silly old family obligation she's handling with her usual grace and efficiency. She doesn't mention the cat, the pathetic stuttering, or the way Arlen looked like a ghost haunting her opulent kitchen. Liam's reassurances and adoration are like balm, momentarily smoothing the ruffled feathers of her pride.
After the call, she paces her vast living room, the city lights shimmering below her like scattered diamonds. She expects silence from the guest wing, demands it. And as the hours tick by, the silence is exactly what she gets. No thumps, no creaks, no feline yowls. Nothing.
This complete, utter quiet, instead of bringing her the peace she craves, begins to gnaw at her. It's too... absolute. Too compliant. It feels less like Arlen is respecting her boundaries and more like he's simply vanished, retreated into a shell so profound it borders on offensive.
He really is just a shadow, she thinks, her gaze flicking towards the distant guest wing entrance, a dark, unimposing archway. Pathetic. Just a meek, little phantom that doesn't even make a sound.
A bitter curl plays on her lips. She wanted him gone, out of sight, out of mind. And he was doing it so perfectly that it felt like another jab. As if his very obedience was a quiet protest, a passive-aggressive surrender designed to make her feel… what? Unjustified? Cruel?
"Don't flatter yourself," she murmurs to the empty room, her voice sharp in the silence. "You're not that important."
She strides over to the mini-bar, pouring herself another glass of wine, her movements precise and deliberate. She's trying to shake off the lingering phantom of his presence, the faint impression of that cloudy eye and the way he clutched his sweater. It's an unwanted residue, clinging to the edges of her perfect evening.
He's in his cage, with his disgusting pet. Good. That's exactly where he belongs.
She takes a long sip of wine, her eyes narrowed. The first night of her unwanted cohabitation concluded with a forced silence, but the absence of noise didn't translate into an absence of contempt. If anything, Arlen's immediate, quiet retreat only deepened her resolve. He was just a fleeting inconvenience, a chapter to be skipped, a forgettable interlude before her real life, her glamorous, perfect life, could resume. She wouldn't let him occupy another second of her thoughts.
The next morning before the sun can even start to peek through the horizon, Arlen was already up and had his room tidied up. He silently navigated the living room. Sweeping the floor, watering the indoor plants, wiping dust off furnitures. He does the chores with economic practiced ease.
The first tendrils of dawn are just beginning to paint the Manila skyline with faint hues of grey and rose when Milia Madrigal's eyes flutter open. Her sleep has been restless, haunted by the lingering annoyance of Arlen's presence. She pushes herself out of her king-sized bed, wrapping herself in a silk robe, and heads toward the kitchen for her morning coffee, a ritual she holds sacred.
She steps into the vast living area, expecting the pristine, silent grandeur of her personal sanctuary. Instead, her steps falter.
A figure. In her living room. Before the sun is even fully up.
Arlen.
He is there, moving with an unnerving, almost spectral quietness. A feather duster in his hand, a quiet *swoosh* as he expertly glides it over a priceless sculpture. The faint scent of lemon polish, rather than her usual bespoke home fragrance, subtly permeates the air. He is meticulously wiping dust from the piano, his back to her, completely absorbed in the task.
Milia freezes, her eyes widening in disbelief, then narrowing into razor-sharp slits of pure, unadulterated fury. Every fiber of her being screams in protest. He has broken every single rule. Invisibility. Silence. 'Stay out of her sight.' And here he is, openly violating her space, cleaning her furniture, intruding upon her most private hours.
Her voice, when it comes, is a low, dangerous hiss, barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the morning quiet like a whip.
"What in the living hell do you think you're doing, Arlen?"
He flinches violently, the duster nearly slipping from his grasp as he spins around, his delicate features illuminated by the dim morning light, his expression a mixture of shock and immediate, familiar apprehension.
"Good morning, Miss Milia. Did you have a good night's sleep?" Arlen greeted, the usual polite smile tracing his lips.
Milia strides towards him, her silk robe trailing behind her like a battle standard, her bare feet silent on the cold marble floor. Her eyes, normally so expressive, are now like chips of ice.
"Did I give you permission?" she demands, stopping inches from him, towering over his suddenly shrinking form. Her voice is gaining volume now, each word laced with contempt. "Did I tell you to touch my property? Did I instruct you to violate my boundaries the moment my back was turned?"
She gestures wildly around the living room, encompassing his pathetic attempts at tidiness. "Is this your idea of a subtle manipulation? To play the dutiful houseguest? To make yourself indispensable? To make me look like a monster for rejecting your pathetic 'help'?"
She scoffs, a bitter, humorless sound. "Let me tell you something, Arlen. I have a staff for this. A professional, paid staff. Your unsolicited, amateur 'chores' are not endearing. They are a profound, offensive intrusion."
She takes a step closer, her voice dropping back to that dangerous, venomous whisper. "You were meant to be invisible. A ghost. A non-entity. And here you are, 'performing' domesticity at dawn. Are you trying to provoke me? Are you trying to prove a point?"
Her finger jabs toward him, barely stopping short of his chest. "Get out. Get back to your wing. And if I ever catch you touching so much as a dust motes in my home without my explicit permission again, I swear to God, the five months will be over for you much, much sooner than you anticipate."
Her eyes bore into him, burning with an almost feral intensity. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. Adelaide? Or do you require further 'instruction' on how to follow basic commands?"
Arlen instinctively gripped the handle of the duster tighter, taking on Milia's early morning contempt. "I...uh, I'm just trying to be of use while I'm staying here. I don't mean anything else."
Milia's eyes blaze with a renewed, almost savage anger. The sheer audacity of his response, delivered with that placid smile and the duster still clutched in his hand, pushes her past her already thin patience. Her nostrils flare, and she takes another aggressive step, forcing him to instinctively recoil slightly.
"Of use?" she repeats, her voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrates with contempt. She practically spits the words. "You think I'm that easily swayed, Arlen? That a little unsolicited dusting will make me forget why you're here, violating my space and ruining my morning?"
She snatches the feather duster from his grasp, her grip firm, and throws it with a sharp, dismissive flick of her wrist onto a nearby armchair, where it lands with a soft, ironic *poof*.
"Let me make something abundantly clear," she continues, her voice rising with each word, her frustration boiling over. "I have a professional staff for this, Arlen. People who are 'paid' to keep this penthouse immaculate. Your 'help' is not only unwanted, it's an insult to their competence and a profound violation of my privacy."
She gestures around the pristine living room, her arm sweeping dramatically. "This isn't some charity case where you can earn your keep by wiping down my furniture! This is *my* home. And your 'usefulness' is nothing but a thinly veiled attempt to ingratiate yourself. To make yourself seem indispensable. To manipulate me into seeing you as anything other than the pathetic, temporary inconvenience that you are!"
Her eyes narrow to icy slits. "You are here under duress, Mr. Adelaide. A contractual obligation. And every single time you step out of line, every single time you defy my very explicit instructions, you only solidify my resolve to end this ridiculous arrangement the 'second' the five months are up."
She leans closer, her face inches from his, her gaze boring into him with an almost frightening intensity. "So, let's try this again. Get out. Get back to your assigned room. Stay out of my sight. Stay silent. And for the love of all that is holy, do not 'ever' touch my property again. Do I make myself absolutely, unequivocally clear, or do you require me to spell it out in a legal contract for your stunted understanding?"
Arlen ducked his head in shame and humiliation.
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again." he apologized in a whispered tone, still keeping that seemingly permanent smile.
Milia's gaze bores into him, her jaw clenching so tight she can feel a muscle tick in her temple. The whispered apology, the bowed head—they're exactly what she expects, yet it's that 'smile', that infuriatingly placid, permanent smile, that ignites a fresh, hotter spark of rage within her. It's a disconnect, a defiance hidden behind a mask of submission, and it feels like a personal affront.
"That smile," she says, her voice a low, dangerous growl, barely audible but thick with menace. She steps closer again, forcing him to flinch, her eyes fixed on his mouth. "Do you think this is a game, Arlen? Do you think my anger is something to be met with that simpering, saccharine grin?"
She points a perfectly manicured finger at his face, her voice rising with each word, shaking with barely contained fury. "Wipe it off! Your 'apology' means less than nothing when your face suggests you're perfectly pleased with yourself. You're not being 'of use,' you're being deliberately provoking! You're trying to test my limits, aren't you? Trying to make me look like a hysterical villain because you refuse to act like a normal human being with actual, genuine emotions!"
Her hand slices through the air, dismissive and sharp. "Don't pretend for a second that this pathetic act of humility and 'helpfulness' is anything but a desperate, transparent attempt at manipulation. It's disgusting, and frankly, it's boring."
Arlen traced his fingers on to his still smiling lips. It's like he actually stryggles to not put a smile always.
Milia stares at his fingers tracing his lips, the infuriating smile stubbornly refusing to vanish. Her eyes narrow to sharp, glacial slits, a fresh wave of disgust washing over her. She doesn't see a man struggling to control an involuntary expression; she sees a pathetic actor committing fully to his role, deliberately trying to provoke her.
"Are you mocking me?" she asks, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that makes the air crackle. Her hand, trembling slightly with suppressed rage, slowly lifts and then, with a sharp, almost violent motion, she backhands the air directly beside his cheek, stopping just shy of actually touching him. The sudden gust of displaced air is meant to be a physical shock, a warning.
"This isn't some endearing quirk, Arlen. This is a calculated, repugnant performance. Are you trying to imply that your fake cheerfulness is so ingrained, so 'natural', that you can't even stop it when faced with genuine anger? Is this how you want to be perceived? As a vacant, smiling puppet?"
She takes another step back, surveying him with an expression of pure revulsion. "Don't play games with me. Don't 'ever' try to make me feel responsible for your inability to display a shred of authentic emotion. Now get out. Before I decide that five months is far too long to tolerate your gilded-cage theatrics."
Without any retort or word to even defend himself, Arlen went back to his room with his tail tucked between his legs.
Milia watches him retreat, her chest heaving slightly with the lingering aftershocks of her fury. His absolute silence, his complete lack of defiance—it should bring her satisfaction, but instead, it feels like another subtle insult. Like he's not even worth the effort of a real argument. His meekness is, in its own way, just as infuriating as if he had actually talked back.
"Pathetic," she spits out, the single word hanging in the air, aimed at his retreating form. She follows his movements with her eyes, a predatory gleam in their depths, until the guest room door clicks shut, sealing him away once more.
The immediate aftermath is a tense quiet, broken only by Milia's ragged breaths. She rakes a hand through her perfectly styled hair, trying to calm the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. He managed to derail her entire morning ritual, just by existing and trying to "help."
She walks over to the feather duster she had thrown, nudging it with the toe of her bare foot. The sight of it, a tool of mundane domesticity, in her opulent living room, makes her lip curl in disgust. She kicks it further under the armchair, out of sight.
He really thinks he can play this game? she thinks, a bitter, humorless laugh bubbling in her throat. He's trying to make me out to be the villain. To garner sympathy. I see through him.
She marches directly to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, pulling open the heavy silk curtains with a sharp tug, letting the now brighter morning sun flood the room. The golden light does nothing to warm her demeanor. She stands there, arms crossed tightly over her chest, gazing out at the sprawling city beneath her penthouse.
"You are nothing, Arlen," she murmurs to the glass, her reflection staring back at her, strong and unyielding. "A speck. A five-month mistake. And if you think for one second that your pathetic silence and forced obedience will change anything, you are sorely mistaken."
She takes a deep, steadying breath, then turns, her gaze once again sweeping over her perfectly maintained living room. "This is 'my' home. 'My' rules. And you will follow them, or you will regret it. This isn't a discussion, it's an order."
Her voice echoes in the now-silent room, a testament to her unyielding control. The confrontation is over, but for Milia, the war has just begun. And she has no intention of losing. She strides to the kitchen, determined to reclaim her morning and erase his intrusion from her memory.