Arlen spent the first week as an obedient ghost in Milia's penthouse.
A full week. Seven days of near-absolute silence from the guest wing. Seven days without seeing his annoyingly meek face or hearing that pathetic stutter. Seven days where her penthouse had, for the most part, reverted to its desired state of opulent solitude.
Milia initially welcomed it. The absence of his clumsy footsteps, the lack of his "helpful" intrusions, the blessedly un-mussed state of her furniture – it was exactly what she had demanded. She moved through her days, recording vocals, attending meetings, gracing galas, and enjoying the uninterrupted presence of Liam, with a renewed sense of control. She even managed to almost forget he was in the building sometimes. Almost.
But Milia Madrigal was not one to be easily placated. The absolute obedience, the spectral quietness, it was almost too perfect. Too seamless. It gnawed at the edges of her satisfaction, turning the relief into a simmering, underlying suspicion.
He's playing a game, she thought, pouring herself a morning espresso, her eyes narrowed at the dark hallway leading to his wing. He thinks this will make me drop my guard. Make me feel guilty.
She would occasionally catch a fleeting glimpse of him – a blur of dark hair disappearing around a corner as she exited her studio, a quiet rustle in the back kitchen when she went for a late-night snack, the faint, almost imperceptible sound of a door clicking shut. Each instance, rather than reassuring her of his compliance, felt like a deliberate act of invisibility, a theatrical display of his 'obedient ghost' routine. It was designed, she was certain, to highlight 'her' cruelty, to make her seem unreasonable.
"He's trying to get under my skin," she muttered to Liam one evening over FaceTime, though she framed it as an amusing anecdote about his 'pathetic attempts to be a phantom.' "It's so transparent. Like he expects me to be impressed by his meekness. As if I'd suddenly develop an affinity for a man who acts like a frightened mouse."
Liam had laughed, calling her strong and resilient, which temporarily soothed her ego. But alone, in the quiet of her penthouse, the thought of Arlen, existing so utterly without a trace, felt less like victory and more like a pervasive, unsettling pressure.
She found herself unconsciously checking doorframes for smudges, glancing at the polished floors for stray orange hairs. She knew Arlen and that disgusting cat, Dex, were confined to their wing. She 'knew' it. Yet, the ghost of their presence lingered, a constant, low-frequency hum of annoyance.
He's just pathetic, she reminded herself, scrolling through her social media, where fans adored her every move. He's waiting for me to crack. Waiting for me to acknowledge him as anything other than an inconvenience.
A sharp, humorless smile touched her lips. She would never give him that satisfaction. His ghost act was just further proof of his weakness, his spinelessness. It solidified her resolve, not softened it. Five months. That was the countdown. And every silent day brought her closer to being free of the pathetic, invisible man who dared to haunt her perfect life.
In his room, Arlen stares at the dwindling supply of cat food. At this rate, Dex will only have enough to last another week. In the drawer of the bedside table, Arlen took out a worn money pouch. Inside were a few crumpled small bills and coins. So much for being a grandson of a wealthy tycoon.
The thought of going back to the Adelaide manor to request some allowance to his grandfather made Arlen's body instinctively shiver.
"I think I might need to get a job." Arlen whispers to Dex.
The quiet hum of the penthouse, which Milia had finally managed to reclaim as her own after a week of Arlen's 'ghost act,' is suddenly, subtly broken. She's in the adjacent hallway, perhaps on her way to her private gym, or perhaps simply passing by, and a low, almost imperceptible whisper carries from the slightly ajar guest room door. "I think I might need to get a job."
A sharp, incredulous scoff escapes Milia's lips. Her head snaps towards the sound, her eyes narrowing. She moves with a predatory grace, materializing in the doorway, her silk robe rustling softly, her expression a potent mix of profound disbelief and biting sarcasm.
"A 'job'?" she repeats, her voice low and cutting, carrying the force of a perfectly aimed dart. She doesn't step into the room, but leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her tall frame an imposing shadow in the doorway. Her gaze, sharp and dismissive, sweeps over the sparse contents of his room, settling on the worn money pouch and the dwindling cat food.
"You, Mr. Adelaide," she sneers, the name dripping with disdain, "grandson of some supposed 'tycoon,' talking about needing a job? How... utterly pathetic. Is this another one of your subtle theatrics, Arlen? Trying to imply that you're so hard done by, so desperately poor, while residing in my penthouse?"
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Don't bother with the performance. I'm not buying the 'destitute prince' act. If you're truly in such dire straits, perhaps your revered grandfather should have considered that before marrying off his 'impoverished' kin to fulfill an ancient, ridiculous pact."
Arlen was startled by Milia's sudden appearance. He hid the pouch inside the drawer once again as he spoke. "I didn't know you were there, Miss Milia."
Milia's eyes narrow, her gaze cutting him down. The quick, furtive movement to hide the money pouch doesn't escape her notice, nor does his immediate pivot to an 'apology' about her presence. To her, it's just another flimsy veil, another layer of his irritating performance.
"Oh, really?" she retorts, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you think my penthouse is so vast that a pathetic little whisper about your dire financial straits wouldn't reach my ears? Are you trying to imply that I am at fault for hearing your little sob story, Arlen?"
She pushes off the doorframe, taking a step forward, her presence filling the already small guest room. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, scan the meager belongings, the simple bed, the forlorn cat bowl. It all confirms her suspicion: he's playing the part of the downtrodden.
"Don't flatter yourself," she snaps, her voice hard as granite. "This isn't about my location. This is about your audacity. Your endless attempts to make yourself seem pitiful. First, the 'helpful ghost,' now the 'pauper prince' in need of a 'job'." She scoffs, a sound devoid of humor. "What's next? Will you be busking in the lobby with that shedding beast, begging for change?"
Her gaze locks onto his, cold and unforgiving. "Let me be brutally clear, Arlen. Your financial woes are your problem. Your family's problem. Not mine. And the very last thing I need is a desperate, pathetic man, supposedly a scion of wealth, polluting my home with talk of 'jobs' and 'crumpled bills.' It's tacky. It's embarrassing. And it's an obvious, transparent manipulation."
Milia, without another word, turns on her heel. The swift, decisive motion of her departure leaves no room for Arlen to even attempt a reply. Her silk robe swishes with a soft, final sound as she exits the guest room, her heels clicking rapidly down the hallway until the faint echoes fade into the distant hum of the penthouse. The silence she leaves behind is thick, heavy, and infinitely colder than the chill from his dwindling funds.
Arlen stands rooted to the spot, his fingers still hovering over the half-closed drawer. The words he might have uttered, the desperate explanations he might have tried to offer, die on his tongue, suffocated by the abruptness of her exit and the stinging truth of her contempt. His face, still faintly flushed, crumples almost imperceptibly as the forced smile finally falters, replaced by a deep-seated sadness.
Dex, sensing the shift in his companion's mood, rubs against his leg with a soft, questioning meow. Arlen slowly sinks onto the edge of his bed, the worn money pouch now fully hidden from view. He stares at the remaining few cans of cat food left, then back at the small, crumpled bills in his mind's eye. Milia's words echo in the quiet room, cutting deeper than he lets on. "Pathetic," "manipulation," "destitute prince"—each word a barb, though he'd never show it to her.
He gently scoops up Dex, holding the warm, purring cat close to his chest, finding a fragile comfort in its presence. His gaze drifts to the open balcony, a silent escape from the suffocating grandeur of the penthouse.
"She's right, Dex," he whispers, his voice barely a breath. "It is pathetic. But what else am I supposed to do?"
He closes his eyes, the weight of his unwanted cohabitation pressing down on him, heavier than the plush mattress beneath him. He was a ghost in her house, and now, it seemed, a pauper in his own right. The thought of finding a job, of navigating the city's bustling streets to earn money for Dex, feels daunting, a task almost as insurmountable as pleasing Milia Madrigal.
For now, all he can do is hug Dex a little tighter, and endure.
***
The very next day, Arlen steeled himself and went out to the bustling city. He felt completely out of place wherever he turns. Still, he needs to find a job to support himself and his feline companion for this 5 month long trial.
Milia awoke the next morning to an almost unnerving silence from the guest wing. No subtle whispers, no faint clinking of dishes from the back kitchen, no imagined creaks of floorboards. It was as if Arlen and his repulsive cat had been utterly vaporized.
At first, a wave of profound relief washed over her. Finally. She could move through her own penthouse, her sanctuary, without the constant, irritating awareness of his pathetic presence. She sipped her coffee, read through her morning briefings, and rehearsed her vocals with an unusual clarity, reveling in the untainted quiet.
But as the hours stretched on, the silence began to shift from comforting to unsettling. Arlen was gone. His belongings, she assumed, were still in the guest room, but his physical absence from the premises was undeniable. Her initial satisfaction began to curdle into suspicion.
What is he doing? she thought, her eyes narrowing as she glanced towards the guest wing. She remembered his pathetic whisper about needing a 'job.' He actually went out? The 'impoverished prince' actually ventured into the real world?
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped her lips. The image of Arlen, so meek and out of place even within her opulent home, trying to navigate the bustling, cutthroat city, was almost laughable. She envisioned him, with his perpetually anxious smile and soft features, shrinking into the background, completely overwhelmed.
"He's probably off somewhere making a fool of himself," she muttered, pushing away her half-eaten gourmet breakfast. The idea of him 'working' was absurd. What could he possibly do? Beg? Clean toilets? The thought filled her with a fresh surge of contempt. It was just another extension of his 'pathetic' persona, designed, she was sure, to make her feel something other than disgust.
"Good riddance," she declared to the empty kitchen, though her voice lacked conviction. She knew, deep down, that his absence was merely temporary. He would return, reeking of the 'ordinary' world, and resume his ghost act.
He's just trying to provoke me, to make me acknowledge his supposed struggle, she thought, picking up her phone and scrolling through Liam's latest text. Well, he won't get it. He's still an inconvenience, whether he's hiding in his room or parading his poverty in the city.
Her eyes, however, still darted towards the main door, a small, involuntary flicker of something that resembled... vigilance. Not worry, but an acute awareness of his eventual, unwanted return.
Milia's day proceeds with its usual whirlwind of calls, rehearsals, and a photo shoot for a fashion magazine. Each task she performs is executed with sharp precision, a stark contrast to the vague, unsettling awareness of Arlen's continued absence. The penthouse feels too quiet, the air almost vibrating with the unfulfilled expectation of his return. She even found herself, to her immense irritation, checking the guest room door when she passed by, just to confirm it was still closed. No sign of him, or that wretched cat.
"He's probably given up already," she muses, dismissively, to her reflection as her makeup artist meticulously touches up her eyeshadow. "Ran back to his grandfather's manor, I expect. Couldn't handle a single day outside his little bubble." The thought should bring her joy, but a stubborn part of her still suspects a ploy. He was too consistently meek not to have some hidden agenda.
***
Meanwhile, in the bustling heart of the city, a scenario far removed from Milia's glamorous world is unfolding.
Arlen, overwhelmed and feeling utterly out of place amidst the concrete jungle, is drawn by the bright lights and extravagant displays of a particular establishment. It's a host club, 'Queen's Selection', a world of polished glamour and manufactured charm, completely alien to his quiet existence. He hovers uncertainly near its entrance, a stark contrast to the flashy patrons entering and exiting.
Suddenly, a figure emerges from the club's opulent entrance. Dressed in a suit so immaculately tailored and adorned that it borders on theatrical, the man cuts an imposing, almost flamboyant figure. He moves with a confident, practiced air, his eyes scanning the street, then... they lock onto Arlen.
The man's gaze is sharp, appraising, like a seasoned talent scout spotting an unexpected gem. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his lips, revealing perfectly white teeth. He doesn't see Arlen's meekness or his cloudy eye as flaws; he sees a delicate beauty, an untapped potential, a captivating fragility that could be molded into something spectacular. He sees the very qualities Milia disdains, but here, they are assets.
He approaches Arlen with a smooth, unhurried gait, a glint of genuine interest in his eyes.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" the man purrs, his voice a rich baritone, carrying just enough theatrical flair to match his attire. He stops directly in front of Arlen, his height and commanding presence eclipsing the nervous young man. His gaze sweeps over Arlen's delicate features, the unusual eyes, the slender physique.
"Lost, little bird?" he asks, though there's no real concern in his tone, only intrigue. "Or are you perhaps searching for a new nest?" He gestures grandly at the 'Queen's Selection' sign above them. "Because if you are... you, my dear, might have just stumbled upon a kingdom." His smile widens, utterly charming and subtly manipulative. "You have a very... unique look. And in our line of work, 'unique' is currency."
He extends a gloved hand, impeccably manicured. "The name's Ren. And I have a feeling we're about to make you very, very famous."