Without a moment's hesitation, Arlen leaned down on the spot of the table where the wine spilled. He slowly stuck out his tongue, actually planning to lick the spill.
Milia's breath hitches. She had expected a protest, a stuttered plea for mercy, or at the very least, a moment of visible conflict where his Adelaide pride warred with his current 'profession.' But there is no hesitation.
As Arlen leans down, the golden light of the chandelier catches the fine, silk-like texture of his black hair, the lace of his jabot brushing against the polished wood of the table. He looks like a fallen angel, a creature of high-born beauty descending into something carnal and degrading just because she willed it.
When his tongue flickers out, pale and pink against the dark, wine-stained wood, a jolt of something visceral—not just anger, but a confusing, hot spark of something darker—surges through Milia. Her hand shoots out, her fingers tangling roughly into the hair at the back of his head, jerking his face up before he can actually make contact with the spill.
"Stop," she hisses, her voice cracking for the briefest of seconds before she regains her icy composure.
She forces him to look up at her, his neck arched back, exposing the vulnerable, pale line of his throat. His hazel eye is wide, glassy with unshed tears he refuses to let fall, and his lips are parted, still bearing that maddeningly docile smile. It's the look of a martyr, and it makes her want to scream.
"Do you have no shame at all?" she demands, her grip tightening on his hair, forcing his head back an inch further. "Is this what they taught you in your 'training'? To be a dog? To turn yourself into a rug for any woman with a thick enough wallet?"
She leaned in closer, her face so near his that their breath mingled—hers smelling of expensive gin and fury, his of the soft mint the club provided its hosts.
"I bought you for the night, Arlen. Not because I wanted to see you act like an animal, but to remind you of what you are." She releases his hair with a disgusted shove, watching him stumble slightly back into his seat.
She grabs a silk napkin from the table and throws it at his chest.
"Wipe it up. Like a human being," she commands, her voice trembling with a rage she can't quite name. "I didn't pay double to watch you degrade the Adelaide name in front of me. I paid to have your undivided attention."
She leans back, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Seeing him so willing to debase himself didn't feel like the victory she thought it would be. It felt like he was winning—showing her that no matter how much she took, he would always have more of his soul to give away just to keep her satisfied.
After wiping the wine spill on the table, Kei turned to Milia once again, as if waiting for another command. The smile is still plastered on his face but his eyes grow more hollow and empty by the second. "What will you have me do next, ma'am?"
The word "ma'am" cuts through the air again, a cold, clinical barrier that reminds Milia she is just a transaction here. She watches him—the way his hands are now folded neatly in his lap, the way his smile remains perfectly, terrifyingly stationary while his eyes seem to have retreated into some deep, dark cavern of his mind.
It infuriates her. She wanted to see him squirm; she wanted to see the "prince" rail against the "tyrant." Instead, she's looking at a shell.
"Don't call me that," she snaps, the command sharp enough to make a nearby server jump. She leans forward, her eyes scanning the hollow depth of his hazel iris. "And stop looking like I've just sucked the life out of you. You're a host, aren't you? Ren said you were a 'masterpiece'. He said you make women feel like they're the only person in the room."
She reaches out, her hand sliding across the table until her fingers hook under his chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact. Her touch is firm, her skin warm against his chilled, pale face.
"Well, I'm the only person in your room tonight, Arlen. So, host me," she whispers, her voice a mix of a challenge and a threat. "Tell me something that isn't a rehearsed line. Tell me why a man with a tycoon for a grandfather is sitting in a den of vice, letting himself be bought by the woman who hates him most in the world."
She lets go of his chin, but her gaze remains locked on his. She's looking for a crack, a spark of the man she knows is hidden behind that lace jabot.
"My life isn't really that interesting, ma'am. I don't want to bore you." Arlen answers, his practiced smile never leaving the curve of his lips.
Milia's fingers curl into a tight fist on the table, her knuckles turning white. The "ma'am" again. Every time the word leaves his lips, it feels like he's constructing a brick wall between them, brick by polite, professional brick. She hates it. She hates that she can't find a single entry point into his thoughts, even when she's paid for the privilege of his time.
"Boring?" she repeats, a sharp, jagged edge to her voice. She leans back, her eyes raking over his delicate, lace-clad frame with a look of pure, concentrated venom. "You think I'm here to be entertained by your life story, Arlen? I've read better tragedies in the gossip columns. I don't care about your past. I care about the fact that you're sitting here, performing like a trained poodle for anyone with enough cash to buy a bottle of champagne."
She signals to a passing server, her gesture sharp and demanding. "Another bottle. The most expensive one you have. And a glass for my... host. He looks like he needs some liquid courage to drop the act."
When the server leaves, she turns her predatory gaze back to him. The jazz in the background seems to swell, the upbeat tempo mocking the suffocating tension at their table.
"I'm sorry ma'am but I...I don't drink alcohol."
Milia's eyebrows shoot up, a sharp, humorless bark of a laugh escaping her. She leans forward until her face is just inches from his, the amber light of the club reflecting in her eyes like a forest fire.
"You don't drink?" she echoes, her voice dripping with incredulity. She gestures vaguely at the surrounding tables where other hosts are expertly popping corks and sharing toasts with their patrons. "You've chosen to work in a palace of intoxicants, Arlen. You've signed a contract to be whatever a woman wants you to be for an hourly fee. And you expect me to believe you have boundaries?"
The server arrives with a fresh bottle of vintage champagne, the condensation on the silver bucket glinting in the dim light. With a flick of her wrist, Milia dismisses the server and takes the bottle herself. She pops the cork with a practiced, violent ease, the thump echoing like a small gunshot in the booth.
She pours a generous amount into a fresh flute and pushes it toward him. The bubbles hiss and pop, a tiny, frantic sound in the heavy silence.
"You're a host, aren't you? Ren's 'exquisite' vintage?" she mocks, her eyes tracking the way the light catches the golden liquid. "A host drinks with his guest. It's part of the fantasy. It's part of the job I'm currently paying double for."
She leans back, her eyes narrowing as she studies his pale, frozen face.
"What's the matter, Arlen? Is the 'pure' Adelaide grandson afraid he might lose that pathetic grip on his mask if he has a glass? Are you afraid of what might slip out of those pretty, smiling lips if you're a little less... ghostly?"
She taps the rim of her own glass against his, a sharp *clink* that sounds like a warning.
"Drink it," she commands, her voice dropping into a low, velvet threat. "I didn't pay for a priest. I paid for a host. And right now, your Queen wants a toast. To your 'independence.' To your 'new life.' Or perhaps to the fact that no matter where you run, you're still just sitting at my feet, waiting for me to tell you what to do."
She watches him, her heart thumping with a dark, expectant thrill. She wants to see that smile waver. She wants to see him cough on the luxury she's forcing down his throat.
"Is that a 'no' I see in your eyes, Arlen?" she whispers, her gaze intensifying. "Because I don't recall 'no' being part of our arrangement. Now. Drink."
Arlen took the glass with subtly shaky hands. His fingers interlacing on to the stem of the flute.
"Thank you for your generosity." He spoke, a whispered murmur.
Milia watches his fingers—slender, trembling, and pale—as they wrap around the delicate crystal stem. The sight should satisfy her. She has stripped him of his choice, forced him to abandon a boundary, and yet, the way he says "Thank you" with that persistent, whispered politeness makes her stomach turn. He's still playing the part. He's still hiding behind the etiquette of a servant.
"It's not generosity, Arlen. It's a transaction," she corrects him, her voice a low, cold vibration. She doesn't pick up her own glass. She keeps her hands flat on the table, leaning forward so her shadow completely eclipses him. "Generosity implies I care about your well-being. I only care about your compliance. Now, stop stalling. Drink."
She watches his throat, the sharp line of his Adam's apple as he prepares to swallow. She wants to see him wince. She wants to see the alcohol burn through that practiced, porcelain exterior.
Arlen brings the glass closer to his lips. With a moment's hesitation, he forced the fizzy liquid down his throat.
The sharp, carbonated sting of the vintage champagne hits his unaccustomed throat, making his eyes water instantly. Arlen swallows it in a single, desperate gulp, the liquid burning a trail down to his stomach. As he pulls the flute away, a faint, involuntary cough escapes him, and a bloom of pink—too sudden and too bright to be natural—spreads across his high cheekbones.
Milia watches him with the intensity of a scientist dissecting a rare specimen. She sees the way his hazel eye shimmers with a sudden, glassy film, and how his grip on the glass tightens until his knuckles are like white marble. The alcohol is already working on delicate frame, beginning to soften the edges of his rigid composure.
"There," she murmurs, her voice a cruel caress as she leans in closer, her eyes fixed on the dampness on his lower lip. "That wasn't so hard, was it? For a moment, you almost looked... human. Not just some clockwork doll Ren put in a suit."
She reaches out, her thumb catching a stray drop of champagne on his lip, her touch lingering longer than necessary. She feels the slight tremor in his jaw, the heat radiating from his skin.
"Now," she says, her voice dropping to a low, melodic purr.
She picks up the bottle again, the ice clinking mockingly in the silver bucket, and refills his glass to the brim. The bubbles hiss, a sharp sound in the sudden quiet of their corner.
"Another one," she commands, her eyes never leaving his. "I want to see that smile of yours finally break. I want to see the ghost haunt himself for a change. Drink, Arlen. Let's see how many glasses it takes to find the man hiding behind the lace."
She watches him, her heart thumping with a dark, expectant thrill. She isn't just buying his time; she is trying to buy his dignity, one glass at a time, curious to see if there's anything left of the Adelaide tycoon's grandson once the "host" is washed away by the gold.
After a few glasses of the high end champagne, Arlen's face is now flushed pink. His vision swirling accompanied by muffled hiccups.
Milia leans back, her eyes sparkling with a dark, predatory satisfaction. The "masterpiece" is finally starting to crack. The deep flush on Arlen's cheekbones, the way his head lolls just slightly, and that sharp, involuntary hiccup—it's all so delightfully unpolished. The poise Ren had carefully crafted for him is melting away, leaving behind something raw and undeniably fragile.
"Oh? Is the 'Selection' losing its luster?" she mocks, her voice a silken thread of cruelty. She reaches out, not to help him, but to tip his chin up again with two fingers, forcing his unfocused hazel eye to meet her sharp gaze. "You look... positively wrecked, Arlen. The pristine Adelaide grandson, hiccuping like a common drunk in a den of vice. How the mighty have fallen."
She finds herself fascinated by the heat radiating from his skin. It's the first time he's felt 'alive' to her, rather than a cold, dutiful shadow.
She lets out a low, melodic laugh and slides the bottle of champagne back into the ice bucket with a decisive *clink*.
"The silence is finally gone. I can see it behind your eyes—the practiced host is drowning." She leans in even closer, her perfume invading his senses. "Where is that polite little 'ma'am' now? Where is the ghost who wanted to be 'invisible'? You're looking at me like you want to say something. So say it. While the champagne is still brave in your blood."
She waits, watching his shivering lips, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure. She wants the truth—no matter how messy or pathetic it is. She wants to hear him break.