The kitchen is so quiet that the faint, tinny voice of the veterinary receptionist is audible even to Milia. Arlen holds the sleek device with both hands, his fingers trembling slightly as if he's afraid he might smudge the glass or break the expensive tech. His eyes are squeezed shut, his entire body tensed as he waits for the verdict.
["Ah, Mr. Adelaide? Yes, Dex is doing much better this afternoon. His fever has broken, and he actually ate a bit of wet food an hour ago. The doctor says he's responding perfectly to the antibiotics. If he stays this stable, you can definitely take him home tomorrow morning."]
The transformation in Arlen is instantaneous. The rigid, defensive line of his shoulders melts away. He lets out a long, shuddering breath that sounds like a sob of pure, unadulterated relief. For a second, the practiced "host" smile is nowhere to be found—instead, his face crumples into an expression of raw, genuine happiness, his hazel eye shimmering with fresh tears that aren't born of pain this time.
"Thank you... oh, thank you so much," he whispers into the phone, his voice thick and wavering. "Please... please tell him I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you."
He ends the call and stands there for a moment, the phone clutched to his chest. He looks up at Milia, and for the first time, he doesn't look at her with fear or professional submission. He looks at her with a gratitude so bright it's almost blinding.
"He ate," Arlen says, his voice a breathless marvel. "He's going to be okay."
Milia feels a strange, uncomfortable tightness in her throat. She looks away, focusing on a stray crumb on the marble counter, her jaw set. Seeing him this happy over something as small as a cat eating is more unsettling to her than his grief was. It proves, once again, how little he actually asks of the world.
"Of course he is," she says, her voice regaining its sharp, impatient edge to mask her internal flicker of softness. "I told you, I don't pay for mediocre care. Now, stop hovering over that phone like it's a holy relic and sit down. Eat that food before it gets as cold as the rice I just threw away."
She gestures imperiously to the barstool next to her.
"And don't even think about thanking me again," she warns, her eyes flashing. "You've already reached your quota for the week. Just... eat. You're making the kitchen look like a Victorian orphanage again, and I'm trying to review a contract."
She pretends to go back to her tablet, but her eyes stay fixed on him through her periphery. She watches him sit—tentatively, as if he expects the stool to disappear—and open the bag of food. The scent of roasted garlic and herbs fills the air.
Arlen quietly eats the food Milia had given him. He ate with economic grace, making sure his meal doesn't disturb Milia.
As he ate, Arlen glances towards her. "Uhm, Miss Milia? If you're not allowing me to work at Queen's Selection again...can I go there later? Just so that I can formally apologize to my supervisor for the sudden resignation. But I..I don't know if he will accept it."
Milia's hand freezes over the tablet. She doesn't look up, but her jaw tightens so significantly that the fine lines of her profile sharpen like a blade. The mere mention of that place—of the velvet, the lace, and the way those women looked at him—makes a cold, possessive fury simmer in her gut.
"Apologize?" she repeats, her voice dropping into a low, mocking register. She finally looks at him, her hazel eyes cutting through the afternoon light. "You want to go back to that den of vultures to apologize for no longer being their primary attraction? How predictably pathetic of you, Arlen."
She slides off her barstool, the movement fluid and predatory. She walks toward him, stopping close enough that he has to tilt his head back to look at her.
"Ren isn't your 'supervisor,' he's a merchant," she says, her voice a sharp, clinical vibration. "He doesn't want your manners. He wants the commission you generate by looking like a wounded bird. He won't 'accept' your resignation because you're a lucrative asset he hasn't finished draining yet."
She studies his face—the way he looks slightly more alive now that he's had a real meal, but still so dangerously soft. The thought of him standing in Ren's office, bowing and stuttering his apologies while that man tries to lure him back into a silk suit, makes her blood boil.
"You aren't going alone," she states, her voice regaining its imperious, non-negotiable tone. "You're coming with me."
Arlen's eyes widen. "Miss Milia, I... I don't want to bother you further. It's a quick trip, I don't want to risk them linking you with someone like me."
Milia lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, the sound vibrating with a cold, jagged irony. She leans in closer, her shadow falling across his face, her eyes narrowing as they search his.
"Risk linking me?" she repeats, her voice dripping with a mixture of amusement and irritation. "Arlen, I am the great Milia Madrigal. I have spent my entire life navigating scandals, paparazzi, and people far more dangerous than a two-bit host club manager. If I want to walk into the 'Queen's Selection' and reclaim my property, I will do so with my head held high, and the world will simply have to wonder why."
She reaches out, her fingers catching his chin, forcing him to keep his gaze on hers. Her touch is firm, possessive.
"You think you're protecting me?" she asks, her voice dropping to a low, melodic hiss. "You're the one who needs protection. You're so busy worrying about my 'perfect life' that you've forgotten you can't even say 'no' to a waiter, let alone a man like Ren. If I let you go there alone, you'll walk out with another five-month contract and a new set of lace collars because you're too 'polite' to tell him to go to hell."
"I... I think I can do it myself."
Milia lets out a sharp, jagged laugh—a sound so full of disbelief it almost echoes in the high-ceilinged kitchen. She lets go of his chin, but only to place her hands on the marble counter on either side of him, effectively trapping him in her personal space.
"You 'think' you can?" she repeats, her voice dropping into a low, mocking octave. "Arlen, just the previous night you were ready to lick a wine spill off a table because I looked at you the wrong way. You have the backbone of a jellyfish and the survival instincts of a moth flying toward a blowtorch. You couldn't even say 'no' to a glass of champagne, and you expect me to believe you can walk into a room with a man who specializes in emotional manipulation and just... resign?"
She leans in until her nose is inches from his, her eyes scanning his face with a clinical, terrifying intensity.
"Ren will look at those sad, hazel eyes of yours, see that you're vulnerable because of your cat, and he will have you back in a navy suit and a lace collar before you can even finish your 'formal apology.' He'll tell you it's a 'favor,' or that he's 'disappointed' in you, and you'll cave because you're pathologically incapable of letting anyone be unhappy with you."
She straightens up, her aristocratic mask settling into a hard, non-negotiable line. She doesn't just want to protect her image; she wants to see the look on Ren's face when he realizes that the 'Tragic Prince' now has a far more dangerous owner.
"I'm not asking, Arlen. I'm telling you. You are a contractual obligation of the Madrigal family for the next four months. If you're going to interact with the 'gutter,' I will be there to ensure the gutter doesn't try to follow you home."
Just as Milia was currently reprimanding Arlen in the kitchen, the doorbell of the penthouse buzzed. The screen of the door viewer displays Milia's boyfriend, Liam.
He's wearing a chic attire and a bouquet cradled in his arm. "Milia, baby. I'm here to pick you up for our celebratory date." Liam's voice delivered through the door viewer.
The two had actually previously planned to celebrate each passing month of the trial until it is over. And today is the schedule of their first one.
The sharp chime of the doorbell slices through the tension in the kitchen like a guillotine. Milia's breath catches, her hands still resting on the counter on either side of Arlen. For a split second, the "great Milia Madrigal" looks genuinely startled, her eyes flickering to the door viewer's monitor.
Liam.
The celebration. She had completely, utterly forgotten. In the chaos of Arlen's disappearance, the midnight run to the vet, and the weight of that signed waiver, the meticulously planned dinner to mark the completion of the first month of her "sentencing" had vanished from her mind.
Arlen reacts instantly. The "obedient ghost" mask slams back into place with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency. He practically wilts under her arms, his gaze dropping to the floor as he slides off the barstool. He's already reaching for the bag of food, his movements frantic and hushed, as if he's trying to erase the evidence of his existence before Liam can even step through the door.
"I... I will go back to my wing immediately, Miss Milia," Arlen whispers, his voice trembling with a renewed, sharp anxiety. "Please, don't let me keep you from your guest."
Milia stands there for a heartbeat, her fingers curling into fists. Usually, the sound of Liam's voice is the anchor that keeps her sane during this ridiculous trial. But right now, hearing him call her "baby" through a speaker while Arlen scurries away like a kicked dog makes her stomach churn with an inexplicable, jagged irritation.
"Stay," she commands, the word hissed under her breath as she grabs Arlen's arm. Her grip is tight, preventing his escape.
"Miss Milia, please—"
"Quiet," she snaps, her eyes fixed on the monitor. She sees Liam smoothing his hair, the perfect bouquet of red roses—her favorite, or so he thinks—cradled in his arm. He looks like a page from a lifestyle magazine. He looks exactly like her "perfect life."
She looks back at Arlen. He looks like a disaster. He's pale, his eyes are bloodshot, and he's clutching a bag of takeout as if it's his only possession.
"Go to your room," she whispers, her voice a sharp, clinical command. She releases his arm, pushing him slightly toward the hallway. "And don't you dare come out until I say so. If he hears so much as a floorboard creak, I'll make sure that formal apology to Ren is the least of your worries."
Arlen doesn't need to be told twice. He vanishes into the shadows of the guest wing, the door clicking shut with a sound so faint it's almost non-existent.
Milia takes a deep, steadying breath. She smooths the silk of her lounge-set, runs a hand through her hair, and forces the "Milia Madrigal" mask into place—the bright, effortless smile that the public loves, the one that Liam expects.
She strides to the door and swings it open, her expression transforming into one of radiant, practiced joy.
"Liam! You're early," she says, her voice a perfect, melodic chime. She accepts the bouquet, the scent of the roses clashing violently with the lingering aroma of the garlic pasta Arlen was just eating.
"One month down, baby," Liam says, stepping into the foyer and pulling her into a brief, possessive kiss. He doesn't notice the tension in her shoulders or the way her eyes flicker toward the guest wing for a fraction of a second. "Only four more to go until we can finally kick that loser out and get our lives back. Ready for dinner?"
Milia looks at the closed door of the guest wing, then back at Liam. The "celebration" suddenly feels like a funeral.
"Of course," she says, her smile never wavering, though her heart feels like a lead weight in her chest. "Let me just... get changed. I'll be out in ten minutes."
She walks past the kitchen, the empty barstool a glaring reminder of the man she just hid. She realizes then, with a sickening jolt, that while she's going out to celebrate the end of the first month, Arlen is sitting in the dark, clutching a new phone and waiting for a call about a cat. And for the first time, her "perfect life" feels like a stage play she's forgotten the lines to.