Another week had bled into the calendar, marking fourteen days down of the five-month sentence. Mika sat on her plush Italian leather sofa, her eyes glazed over as she stared at an afternoon talk show playing on the television. In her lap, her phone screen displayed a calendar app where she had aggressively crossed out the days.
*’Fourteen days,’* she thought, a small, vindictive spark of satisfaction warming her chest. *’Only one hundred and thirty-six more to go.’*
Since the scarf incident, Arlen had been a model of absolute non-existence. He stayed in his barren room, only slipping out like a ghost to refill his water tumbler or to walk to the yellow-signed diner. He hadn’t complained once. He hadn’t tried to talk to her. He was simply enduring, and Mika was convinced his resolve was slowly chipping away under the weight of her psychological warfare.
The sharp, sudden chime of the doorbell shattered her train of thought.
Mika’s brow furrowed. Liam always called or texted before coming over—not that he had visited since the peanut butter catastrophe anyway. Carly had her own keycard.
With a sigh of irritation, Mika stood up, smoothing down her designer loungewear. She marched to the double doors and pulled one open, ready to dismiss whatever solicitor or delivery person had dared to disturb her afternoon.
The words died in her throat.
Standing in the hallway was an elderly man with a sharp, commanding posture, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. His silver hair was combed back perfectly, and his dark eyes held a stern, penetrating gaze that had intimidated boardrooms for decades.
It was Albert Rivera. Her grandfather.
"Grandfather," Mika stammered, her fierce, commanding persona instantly faltering into a tense, defensive mask. "What... what are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were visiting."
Albert stepped past her into the foyer without waiting for an invitation, his cane tapping firmly against the polished floor. He cast a sharp, assessing eye over the pristine, luxurious living room.
"If I told you I was coming, you would have spent the day preparing a performance," Albert said, his deep, authoritative voice echoing in the high-ceilinged space. "I am here to see the reality, Mika. I want to see how you and Arlen are managing this living arrangement. Julius has been asking for updates, and I will not have our family look like poor hosts."
A cold sweat broke out on the back of Mika’s neck.
*’Oh, my god,’* her mind screamed in sudden, sheer panic.
The reality? The reality was that the heir to the Adelaide empire was currently locked in a barren corner room, sleeping on bare wooden slats with a pillow made of folded sweaters, forbidden from touching a single crumb in the kitchen, and living off fifty-peso bread and ninety-peso peanut butter. If Albert walked down that hallway and opened that door, he would have a stroke—and then he would make her life an absolute, living hell.
"We’re... we’re managing wonderfully!" Mika lied smoothly, her voice rising a pitch higher than normal as she quickly closed the front door. She rushed to block the path to the hallway, offering her grandfather a bright, entirely forced smile. "Arlen is very quiet. He mostly keeps to himself. We’ve been having a... very peaceful time."
Albert’s sharp eyes narrowed, detecting the slight tremor in her voice. He leaned heavily on his cane, tilting his head.
"Is that so?" Albert questioned, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Then where is he? If he is living here, he should be welcoming his elder. Call him out, Mika. I want to speak to him."
"Arlen?" Mika called out, her voice straining to hit a pitch that sounded welcoming, even affectionate—a sound so foreign to her own ears it made her stomach turn. "Can you come out to the living room, please? We have a guest!"
For a tense, agonizing second, there was no sound from the hallway. Mika’s heart hammered against her ribs. She stared at the closed guest room door, silently praying that he wouldn’t walk out carrying his makeshift sweater-pillow or, worse, a jar of ninety-peso peanut butter.
Then, the soft *click* of the door handle echoed.
Arlen emerged. He stepped into the hallway, dressed in his dark, oversized knit sweater. With his usual quiet, methodical grace, he turned around and pulled the door shut behind him, clicking it firmly into place. Mika let out a silent, trembling breath of absolute relief. The barren room remained a secret.
As Arlen walked toward the living room, Albert Rivera’s stern, imposing posture shifted. The sharp, critical gaze the elderly tycoon usually leveled at his employees—and his granddaughter—instantly melted away. His weathered face softened, a warm, genuine smile replacing his frown.
"Ah, Arlen," Albert said, his deep voice taking on a surprisingly gentle, grandfatherly tone. "It is good to see you again, my boy."
Arlen stopped a polite distance away. He bowed his head in a respectful, traditional gesture, his dark bangs shifting slightly to reveal his striking, delicate features before settling back over his right eye.
"Hello, Mr. Albert," Arlen greeted softly, his androgynous voice calm and entirely deadpan. "It is good to see you as well. I hope your journey here was pleasant."
Albert chuckled warmly, a sound so rare and foreign to Mika’s ears that she almost didn’t recognize it. He reached out and patted Arlen’s shoulder, his stern eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Please, Arlen. ’Mr. Albert’ is far too formal," the elderly patriarch insisted, his voice gentle but firm. "We are to be family, after all. You must call me grandfather."
Arlen blinked, his left eye fixed on the old man. He processed the command with his usual literal obedience. "Okay, Grandfather."
"Good, good," Albert said, nodding with deep satisfaction. He turned a sharp, pointed look toward Mika, his expression instantly hardening back into its usual critical mold. "Such graceful courtesy. It is a breath of fresh air to see a young man with actual breeding and respect, unlike some of the... loud, classless people of your generation."
Mika’s jaw clenched. Even without Albert mentioning a name, she knew exactly who he was referring to. Her grandfather had made his disdain for Liam abundantly clear from the very beginning of their relationship. To Albert, a man’s worth was measured in legacy, steel, and quiet dignity—not in magazine covers, designer labels, and social media followers.
Her fierce pride flared, and she couldn’t stop herself from stepping forward to defend her boyfriend.
"Grandfather, if you’re talking about Liam, there’s no need to make passive-aggressive remarks," Mika said, her voice tight as she tried to maintain her composure. "Liam is incredibly hardworking. He’s a public figure under immense pressure, and he has a highly successful career. He doesn’t lack respect; he’s just passionate."
Albert’s cane came down with a sharp, resounding *thud* against the marble floor. The sudden, commanding sound made Mika flinch, but Arlen didn’t even blink.
"Passionate?" Albert scoffed, his voice dripping with absolute authority and disdain. "Do not insult my intelligence, Mika. That boy is an arrogant, pampered child playing at being a man. He spends his days preening in front of cameras and his nights throwing tantrums whenever his fragile ego is bruised. He has no substance, no spine, and certainly no dignity."
Mika opened her mouth to argue, a hot-headed retort rising to her throat—but the words died before she could speak them.
Because, deep down, she knew he was right.
As much as her pride refused to admit it, the memory of the past week flashed vividly in her mind. She remembered Liam screaming hysterically over a dollop of ninety-peso peanut butter, weeping about his callback, and fleeing her penthouse like a scolded dog. She remembered how he had completely abandoned her for the past days, hiding in his apartment simply because he couldn’t bear to look at Arlen’s effortless, unbothered beauty. Liam *was* a pampered child. He was fragile, vain, and entirely dependent on the adoration of others to feel like a man.
Standing next to Arlen—who had calmly accepted a barren room, slept on bare wooden slats, eaten cheap groceries, and cleaned her balcony with his own cashmere sleeve without a single complaint—Liam looked incredibly small.
Mika’s chest tightened with a mixture of bitter resentment and begrudging realization. She hated that her grandfather was right. She hated that *Arlen* was the one making her realize it.
"He is my boyfriend, Grandfather," Mika muttered quietly, her voice lacking its usual fiery conviction as she looked away. "You should respect my choices."
"I will respect your choices when you start making sensible ones," Albert replied coldly. He turned his attention back to Arlen, his face softening once more. "Now, Arlen, tell me. How has the penthouse been treating you? I trust my granddaughter has been a gracious hostess in her own... unique way?"