Arlen picked up his stride as he walked out of the penthouse and heads unto his 'shift'.
The morning air is crisp, a sharp contrast to the stifling, perfume-heavy atmosphere Arlen is heading toward. As the elevator descends, he feels the weight of the envelope in his pocket—the physical proof that he can survive these five months without crawling back to the Adelaide manor. But as he steps out into the city, he feels the phantom sting of Milia's words. A walking, breathing pollutant.
He keeps his head down, his oversized sweater sleeves pulled over his palms, blending into the early morning rush of commuters. To the world, he is just a tired, beautiful boy. To Milia, he is a stain. To the "Queen's Selection," he is a rising star.
***
The club is different during the day. The velvet looks less like royalty and more like heavy fabric; the gold accents are dull without the clever play of spotlights. But in the dressing room, the magic begins again.
"Back so soon, my tragic little prince?" Ren's voice smooths over the quiet room as he walks in, holding a garment bag. "Vivienne has already called twice. She wants the 8:00 PM slot. You've made quite the impression."
Arlen sits in the vanity chair, allowing the stylists to work. Today, they choose a deep navy suit with a lace jabot—a look that is hauntingly Victorian and accentuates his pale, porcelain skin.
"I... I just want to do a good job, Ren," Arlen whispers, his hazel eye fixed on the reflection of the stylist concealing the faint redness on his jaw where Milia had grabbed him.
"You already are," Ren says, leaning down to adjust Arlen's bangs, ensuring the burn mark and the clouded eye remain perfectly veiled. "Just remember: don't give too much of yourself away. Keep them hungry for the parts of you that are still 'broken.'"
***
Back at the penthouse, Milia is failing.
She sits at her grand piano, the score for her new ballad laid out before her, but her fingers keep hitting the wrong keys. The silence she once cherished now feels heavy, pregnant with the questions she refuses to ask. The scent of Arlen's "independence"—that mixture of musk and gin—seems to have embedded itself in her nostrils, despite his frantic cleaning.
She slams her hands down on the keys, a jarring, dissonant chord echoing through the high ceilings.
"Useless," she hisses, standing up and pacing the length of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She pulls out her phone, her thumb hovering over Liam's contact, but she doesn't call. Instead, she finds herself opening a private browser. She types in: High-end host clubs, Manila.
Dozens of results pop up, but one name catches her eye, whispered about in the inner circles of the elite: Queen's Selection. A place where the "Selection" is curated for the most discerning tastes.
"He wouldn't," she mutters, her heart doing a strange, frantic skip. "He's too pathetic. Too shy. He'd be eaten alive in a place like that."
But she remembers the lipstick smudge. She remembers the way he stood his ground this morning, not with a roar, but with that maddening, quiet resilience. He was hiding something—something that made him look less like a ghost and more like a man with a secret.
Her pride, usually her shield, now feels like a cage. She is the great Milia Madrigal. She doesn't chase after runaways. But the thought of him being 'handled' by others—the thought of someone else seeing the face that was meant to be 'invisible' in her home—it feels like a theft.
She picks up her designer coat, her eyes flashing with a cold, predatory light.
"If you're going to soil the Adelaide name, Arlen," she whispers to the empty room, "I'm going to see exactly how much you're charging for the privilege."
***
Inside the club, the lights have dimmed to a golden amber. Arlen is seated across from Vivienne again. She is draped over the sofa, her hand inches from his.
"You look even more beautiful tonight, Arlen," she murmurs, her eyes tracing the line of his throat. "So tell me... who is the woman who makes you look so sad when you think no one is watching?"
Arlen offers a small, practiced smile, his heart thudding. "I don't know what you mean, Madam. I am simply happy to be in your company."
"Liar," she chuckles, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear—the right one, the 'normal' one. "You're a very good liar. That's what makes you so captivating."
Just as Arlen is about to pour more wine, the heavy oak doors of the club swing open. The light from the hallway spills in, and a figure steps through—a woman whose presence commands the room instantly, even without the spotlight.
Arlen's hand freezes. The crystal decanter clinks against the glass.
In the doorway stands Milia Madrigal. She isn't in her silk slip now. She is dressed in a sharp, blood-red power suit, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for a rabbit.
Ren steps forward, his professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second as he recognizes the famous singer. "Miss Madrigal? We didn't expect such an illustrious guest tonight."
Milia doesn't look at Ren. Her gaze cuts through the shadows, landing directly on the corner booth where Arlen sits, dressed in lace and silk, serving wine to a woman who is looking at him with clear, hungry intent.
Her eyes lock onto Arlen's. The 'obedient ghost' is gone. In his place is a host—a beautiful, androgynous doll being admired by the world.
"I'm looking for someone," Milia says, her voice carrying across the silent room, cold enough to frost the champagne. "I believe he's currently 'of use' at that table over there."
The atmosphere in the "Queen's Selection" shifts instantly. The low hum of flirtatious murmurs and the clinking of expensive crystal die out, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. All eyes turn to Milia. She stands in the center of the room, her silhouette sharp and imposing against the opulent decor. She doesn't belong in the shadows of a host club; she is a woman of the sun, of the stage, and her presence here feels like a blinding intrusion.
Arlen feels the blood drain from his face. The crystal decanter in his hand trembles violently, the wine inside sloshing against the glass walls. He wants to disappear, to sink into the velvet cushions and become the ghost Milia always demanded he be. But tonight, he is on display. He is wearing lace; he is wearing silk; he is wearing the attention of another woman like a second skin.
Vivienne, sensing the shift in the air, looks up from Arlen to the newcomer. Her eyes narrow, her expression souring. "Ren," she calls out, her voice sharp with annoyance. "I believe I paid for privacy, not a public spectacle. Who is this?"
Milia doesn't wait for Ren to answer. She marches toward the booth, her heels clicking a rhythmic, predatory beat on the hardwood. Every step is a statement of ownership. She stops at the edge of the table, her shadow falling directly over Arlen, drowning out the golden light of the club.
"I am the woman who owns the lease on his soul for the next five months," Milia says, her voice low and terrifyingly calm. She doesn't even look at Vivienne; her gaze is a cold, unwavering laser fixed on Arlen.
"I apologize, but I believe you might have mistaken me for someone else...ma'am." Arlen replied, his voice suprisingly calm.
He is trying to feign ignorance of having connections to Milia. The way she is presenting herself now, it would be bad for her career if a scandal breaks out because of this. The whole trial agreement was supposed to be an utmost secrecy.
The word "ma'am" hangs in the air, cold and clinical, hitting Milia with the force of a physical slap. Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, the pupils dilating in a mixture of shock and sheer, unadulterated ego-bruising. He is looking right at her—the man who was stuttering and trembling in her kitchen just twenty-four hours ago—and he is pretending she is a stranger.
A stranger.
She sees the logic behind it, of course. The NDAs, the family pact, the "absolute secrecy" she demanded to protect her career. If she screams his name, if she claims him here, the tabloids will have her for breakfast. Arlen is using the very cage she locked him in to keep her at arm's length.
Her jaw tightens, a muscle leaping in her cheek. The fury in her chest doesn't dissipate; it condenses, turning into something sharper, more focused. She looks at him—really looks at him—in the navy silk and lace. He looks expensive. He looks like something someone would want to own. And he is currently being owned by the woman sitting across from him.
"Mistaken?" Milia repeats, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a silk-wrapped blade. She ignores Vivienne entirely, her focus narrowing until the rest of the club ceases to exist. "You're right. Perhaps I was mistaken. I thought I was looking for a ghost... but it seems I've found a very clever actor instead."
She doesn't back down. Instead, she does something Arlen never expected. She pulls out the chair at the head of the table and sits down, crossing her legs with a slow, deliberate grace that screams of high-status authority. She leans back, draped in her power suit, and looks at him with a chilling, predatory smile.
"If you're a professional, then you won't mind a new client," Milia says, her voice carrying that effortless, melodic projection that has filled concert halls. She signals to Ren, who is watching the exchange like a man observing a fuse burning toward a powder keg.
"Ren, isn't it?" she asks, not even glancing at the manager. "I want him. For the rest of the night. Cancel his other 'engagements.' I'll double whatever this... lady... is paying."
Vivienne gasps, her face flushing with indignation. "Excuse me? You can't just—"
"I can," Milia interrupts, finally flicking her eyes toward Vivienne with a look of such profound, aristocratic boredom that the older woman visibly recoils. "I am Milia Madrigal. I don't wait in lines, and I certainly don't share."
She turns her gaze back to Arlen, her eyes burning with a dark, triumphant light. She has found the loophole. If he wants to be a host, fine. She will be his Queen. And she will be the most demanding, cruel Queen he has ever served.
"Well, Arlen?" she whispers, using his name now that the surrounding noise has picked back up, though her voice is low enough only for their table. "Since you're so eager to be 'of use,' pour me a drink. And make it something strong. I have a feeling it's going to be a very long, very expensive night for both of us."
She leans forward, her perfume—that sharp, floral scent that haunted his room—invading his space, clashing violently with the musk of the club.
"Don't look so shocked," she murmurs, her eyes fixed on his hazel one. "You wanted to find a job where you didn't have to beg for money. Congratulations. You're working for me now. Again."
Arlen glanced at Ren with shivering lips, his gaze pleading for help.
Ren, ever the opportunist, doesn't offer the salvation Arlen is looking for. Instead, his eyes glint with a predatory thrill. To Ren, this isn't a domestic dispute; it's the ultimate high-stakes theater. Having a superstar like Milia Madrigal in his club, willing to outbid a regular for a new host, is a dream come true for the club's prestige.
"I'm afraid, Arlen," Ren says, his voice a smooth, oily purr as he steps toward the table, "that in the Queen's Selection, the Queen with the loudest voice—and the heaviest purse—always wins. And Miss Madrigal's voice is... legendary."
Ren turns to Vivienne with a practiced, apologetic bow. "Madam Vivienne, please accept my sincerest apologies. To compensate for the interruption, your next two bottles of Cristal are on the house, and I shall personally assign our top-ranked host, Kael, to attend to you for the remainder of the evening. I trust you understand that some requests are... impossible to deny."
Vivienne looks like she wants to protest, but the sheer weight of Milia's cold, aristocratic gaze and Ren's firm dismissal leaves her no choice. She huffs, gathering her furs with trembling, insulted hands, and retreats from the booth, casting one last, pitying look at Arlen before disappearing into the shadows.
Arlen is now alone with the woman he was trying so hard to escape.
Milia watches Vivienne leave with a smirk of pure, unadulterated triumph. She turns her attention back to Arlen, who looks smaller than ever in his silk and lace, his hazel eye wide and pleading. The shivering of his lips is like wine to her; she savors the sight of his composure crumbling under her thumb.
"Why the long face, Arlen?" Milia mocks, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly intimate register. She leans forward, her elbow on the table, her chin resting in her hand. "You wanted to be a host. You wanted to be 'of use.' Well, I have a very specific set of needs tonight, and you are going to fulfill every single one of them."
She taps the crystal glass in front of her. "I'm waiting. The wine. Or do I need to call Ren back and tell him my host is... incompetent?"
Arlen's hands shake so violently that the neck of the decanter chatters against the rim of Milia's glass as he pours. A few drops spill onto the table—a repeat of his earlier mistake—but this time, he doesn't just flinch. He freezes, his breath hitching in his throat.
Milia's eyes drop to the spilled wine, then slowly travel up to his face. A cruel, slow smile spreads across her lips.
"Oh, look at that. Another mess," she whispers, her voice a sharp contrast to the upbeat jazz playing in the background. She doesn't reach for a napkin. Instead, she leans closer, her eyes boring into his. "Clean it up, Arlen. And don't use a cloth. I think you should show me exactly how... submissive... a host can be when he's truly desperate to please his Queen."
She sits back, crossing her arms, her gaze expectant and merciless. She is going to break him right here, in the middle of his new 'kingdom,' and remind him that no matter what suit he wears or what name he goes by, he belongs to her.
"Well?" she prompts, her voice cutting through his panic. "I'm paying double, remember? I expect double the effort."