Mika’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, a cold dread washing over her. This was it. This was the moment Arlen would drop the act, expose her cruelty, and reveal that he was sleeping on bare wooden slats in a room devoid of any basic comfort. She braced herself for the inevitable fallout, her hands trembling slightly as she prepared to defend her pride.
But Arlen merely blinked, his expression remaining entirely placid.
"Ms. Mika is a very accommodating host," Arlen said, his soft, androgynous voice carrying a tone of absolute sincerity. "She is very kind. She gave me the room at the very end of the hallway so that I may have maximum privacy. She also makes sure I drink plenty of water."
Mika’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. *’Kind? Accommodating?’* She stared at him, her brain temporarily short-circuiting. He was spinning her tyrannical rules—the isolation, the ban on her food—into acts of thoughtful hospitality.
Albert’s face lit up with a proud, satisfied smile. He turned a triumphant look toward his granddaughter. "Do you see that, Mika? Even after how difficult you’ve been, Arlen only has praise for you. You should learn from his humility." He turned back to Arlen, tapping his cane. "Well, I am glad to hear it. Still, I want to personally inspect your living conditions. Let us go take a look at your room. I want to make sure the mattress is up to the Adelaide standards. If it is too soft, I will have my staff import a proper orthopedic one for you."
Mika felt the color drain from her face. Her stomach dropped. If her grandfather took three steps down that hallway and opened that door, she is finished. She opened her mouth to speak, to make up some desperate lie, but her throat was completely dry.
"You cannot go in there, Grandfather," Arlen said quietly.
Albert paused, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. "Oh? And why is that, my boy?"
"It is currently a mess," Arlen lied, his voice entirely serious. "I have not had the time to clean up yet. It is in a state of great disarray."
Albert chuckled, clearly amused by the young man’s sudden bashfulness. "A mess? Come now, Arlen. You are a young man, I expect a little clutter. I am sure it is nothing terrible."
"No," Arlen insisted, his tone perfectly flat but incredibly firm. "My biscuits are in complete disorder. I have not had the time to arrange them by height today. Some of the shorter crackers are standing where the tall biscuits should be. It is very shameful. I cannot let you see such chaos."
Mika stared at Arlen, her jaw practically dropping to the floor. *’Biscuits? He’s using his stupid snack staircase as an excuse?’* She wanted to scream, she wanted to laugh, and she wanted to run out of the room all at once. It was the most bizarre, brain-dead excuse she had ever heard in her life, delivered with the gravity of a national crisis.
But to her utter shock, Albert simply let out a hearty, booming laugh, clearly charmed by what he assumed was a quirky, endearing trait of the wealthy heir.
"Ah! I see, I see!" Albert chuckled, wiping a tear of amusement from his eye. "A perfectionist! Just like your grandfather Julius. Very well, Arlen. I will respect your privacy and your... biscuit arrangements. I shall not intrude on your chaos."
Mika let out a long, silent breath, her shoulders sagging with immense relief. She looked at Arlen, who was still standing there with his hands neatly tucked into his oversized sleeves, looking entirely pleased with himself for successfully deploying his excuse.
Albert nodded, thoroughly pleased by Arlen’s eccentric but respectful demeanor. He adjusted his grip on his cane and turned a final, warning look toward his granddaughter.
"I must say, Julius will be glad to hear you are in such good spirits, Arlen," Albert said, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone as he prepared to depart. "Mika, see to it that you continue to accommodate him. No matter how much you dislike this arrangement, do your part well. Don’t disappoint me."
With a final nod, the elderly patriarch turned and walked out of the penthouse, the heavy double doors clicking shut behind him.
The moment the lock engaged, the silence in the penthouse became suffocating. Mika’s forced, polite smile instantly vanished, replaced by a dark, murderous scowl. Her chest heaved as she slowly turned her head toward Arlen.
She felt utterly humiliated. In the span of ten minutes, her grandfather had thoroughly insulted her, dragged her boyfriend’s name through the mud, and praised Arlen as if he were a saint. And the worst part? Arlen had had the perfect opportunity to destroy her. He could have shown Albert the barren room, told him about the strict rules, and painted her as the villain in this trial.
But he hadn’t. He had lied for her. He had saved her skin.
To anyone else, it would have been a saving grace. To Mika, it was a direct insult to her pride. She did not believe for a single second that he had done it out of the goodness of his heart.
"What the hell was that?" Mika hissed, her voice vibrating with contained rage as she marched toward him, her heels clicking like gunshots against the marble floor.
Arlen stood perfectly still, his hands still tucked into his oversized sleeves. He blinked slowly, his vacant left eye tracking her aggressive approach. "What was what, Ms. Mika?"
"Don’t play dumb with me, Adelaide!" she snarled, stopping inches from him and pointing a sharp, manicured finger directly at his chest. "You had the perfect chance to ruin me. You could have shown him that barren room. You could have told him I banned you from the kitchen. But instead, you stood there and lied to his face! You made up some pathetic, brain-dead story about your stupid *biscuits*!"
"My biscuits are very important," Arlen murmured softly, his deadpan voice entirely serious. "If they are not arranged by height, it is difficult to find the chocolate ones."
"Shut up about the biscuits!" Mika screamed, her fiery red hair practically shaking with her fury. "I know what you’re doing! This is your play, isn’t it? You wanted to play the hero. You wanted to save me so that I would feel indebted to you. You think if you play the sweet, protective fiancé who covers up my ’mistreatment,’ I’ll suddenly soften up? You think I’ll feel guilty, apologize, and let you into my bed?"
Arlen tilted his head, his thick bangs shifting slightly. He looked at her furious, flushed face with genuine, quiet confusion.
"I do not want to go into your bed," Arlen said, his voice melodic and calm.
"Stop lying!" Mika hissed, her pride utterly wounded. "You’re trying to buy my favor! You’re trying to manipulate me into liking you so you can win this stupid trial and force me into this marriage! It’s disgusting. You and your grandfather planned this, didn’t you? You play the brain-dead martyr, and the moment I slip up, you ’save’ me to make yourself look like a gentleman!"
Arlen stared at her. He listened to her wild, paranoid accusations, his mind slowly processing the sheer volume of her anger. He didn’t feel insulted. He simply didn’t understand why she was making a simple situation so complicated.
"I did not plan anything," Arlen explained quietly, his voice as light as a whisper. "I only lied because if Grandfather Albert saw the room, he would have been very angry with you. He would have yelled at you. And if he yelled at you, you would have been sad. And then you would have yelled at me."
He paused, his vacant eye blinking once.
"Yelling makes your throat sore," Arlen added, his tone entirely sincere. "You are a singer. If your throat is sore, you cannot sing. I did not want you to lose your voice. That is all."
Mika froze. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
She stared at his breathtakingly beautiful, empty face, searching for even a microscopic trace of mockery, sarcasm, or smugness. But there was absolutely nothing. He had lied to a powerful billionaire simply because he didn’t want her to get yelled at and ruin her singing voice.
It was a completely absurd, literal, and strangely considerate piece of logic.
But to Mika’s prideful, paranoid mind, it was the ultimate humiliation. He was patronizing her. He was treating her like a fragile, temperamental child who needed to be protected from her own grandfather. He had essentially conquered her and Liam, reduced them both to insecure, shouting messes, and now he was playing the benevolent protector.
"I don’t need your protection," Mika whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and deep, bitter resentment. "And I don’t need your pity. You think you won today, Adelaide? You think you bought yourself some safety?"
She stepped back, her eyes blazing with a tyrannical promise.
"You didn’t save me. You just proved how dangerous you are. I am going to watch every single move you make. The moment you slip up—and you *will* slip up—I am going to throw you out of this penthouse myself. That I can promise you."