When Arlen returned to the penthouse, the silence of the vast space confirmed that Mika had already left for her scheduled work. The quiet was a relief to his aching back. He walked straight to his guest room, retrieved a single pain relief pill from the pharmacy bag, and swallowed it with water.
Sitting down on the edge of the bare wooden slats, he waited for the medicine to take effect. To pass the time, he reached into his suitcase and pulled out a fresh skein of brown and tan yarn, along with a pair of smaller knitting needles.
Hours progressed quietly. The dull ache in his back began to recede into a manageable warmth.
The silence of the penthouse was suddenly broken by the soft chime of the front door unlocking. Footsteps echoed in the foyer—not the sharp, aggressive click of Mika’s high heels, but a lighter, more casual stride.
It was Carly.
Dressed in a stylish casual outfit, her medium-length dark hair swaying, she carried a thick folder of important contracts and schedule drafts. She walked into the living room and set the documents neatly on the marble center table.
"Mika? You home?" Carly called out, looking around the empty, pristine living room.
Receiving no answer, she checked her phone. A text from Mika confirmed she was still stuck at her photo shoot for another two hours. Carly was about ready to turn on her heel and leave when her gaze drifted toward the far end of the hallway.
Her mischievous curiosity, fueled by a week of listening to Mika’s wild, paranoid rants about her "psychopathic, manipulative" roommate, completely got the better of her. She wanted to see this mysterious, breathtakingly beautiful heir for herself.
Carly tiptoed down the hallway, her footsteps quiet on the polished floor. She stopped in front of the guest room door and gave it a polite, light knock.
"Come in," a soft, airy, and distinctly androgynous voice called out from inside.
Carly slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open, a bright, friendly greeting already on her lips. "Hey there! I’m Carly, Mika’s—"
The words died in her throat.
Carly stood frozen at the threshold, her eyes widening in absolute, jaw-dropping shock as she took in the physical reality of the room. Mika had complained about Arlen playing a "martyr," but Carly had assumed her dramatic best friend was exaggerating.
She wasn’t.
The room was completely barren. There was no mattress, no sheets, and no pillows on the skeletal wooden bed frame. In the corner, a single wooden chair held a perfectly organized, descending "staircase" of cheap biscuits, a loaf of bread, and a jar of jam. At the head of the bare wooden slats lay two folded knit sweaters, serving as a pathetic excuse for a pillow.
It looked like a cell.
And sitting right in the middle of those hard wooden slats was Arlen. He looked impossibly beautiful, his dark hair falling softly over his face, completely unbothered by his bleak surroundings. In his hands, his knitting needles were clicking together with quiet precision, slowly shaping a small, plush, blocky creature out of brown yarn.
"Oh my god," Carly whispered, her mischievous demeanor instantly vanishing. "Mika actually did this to you? You... you really sleep on bare wood?"
Arlen paused his knitting, his vacant left eye blinking slowly as he looked at the newcomer. He didn’t look embarrassed or upset to be caught in such a state.
"Hello, Ms. Carly," Arlen said politely, bowing his head slightly. "The wood is very solid. It does not squeak. It is very good for my posture."
Carly stepped further into the room, her eyes darting from the bare bed to the sad little grocery staircase on the chair. "Are you crazy? You’re a billionaire’s heir! Why are you letting her treat you like a prisoner? If my grandfather forced me into an arranged marriage and the guy put me in a room like this, I would have burned the penthouse down by day two."
"I do not have matches," Arlen replied in a calm, entirely deadpan tone. "And Ms. Mika is very accommodating. She lets me use such a spacious room."
Carly stared at him, her brain struggling to comprehend if he was being incredibly sarcastic or if he was genuinely, hilariously literal. Looking at his wide, empty eye, she realized it was the latter. He was completely serious.
Her gaze fell to the brown yarn in his lap. To break the sheer absurdity of the moment, she pointed at it. "What are you making there? Is that... a block?"
"It is a capybara," Arlen corrected softly. He held up the half-finished plush toy. It had a large, rectangular head, tiny knitted ears, and a plump, round body. "They are very peaceful animals. They like to sit in hot springs with oranges on their heads."
Carly couldn’t help but let out a soft, amused laugh. The sheer contrast of this ethereal, wealthy young man sitting in a barren room, knitting a capybara, was the most surreal thing she had ever witnessed.
"It’s really cute," Carly said, leaning against the doorframe, her playful curiosity returning. "Who’s it for? Another peace offering for Mika? Because let me tell you, she’s still fuming about the scarf."
Arlen slowly lowered the capybara back to his lap, his fingers gently smoothing down the brown stitches. His expression remained entirely blank, his voice airy and quiet.
"It is a secret," Arlen murmured. "If I tell you, it will not be a secret anymore."
Carly raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk spreading across her face. "A secret, huh? Well, keep your secrets, handsome."
Carly, who had only intended to catch a quick glimpse of the mysterious, "manipulative" fiancé, found herself completely unable to leave. There was something magnetic about Arlen’s absolute stillness and his quiet, bizarre logic.
"May I offer you a biscuit?" Arlen asked, his voice soft and polite.
Before Carly could answer, he carefully picked up the smallest packet of chocolate biscuits from his meticulously arranged snack staircase on the chair. He held them out to her with both hands, his long sleeves covering most of his fingers.
"Thanks," Carly said, thoroughly amused. She took a biscuit and sat down on the very edge of the mattress-less bed frame, testing its sturdiness. "Wow. You weren’t kidding. This really is solid wood."
"Yes," Arlen agreed, sitting cross-legged opposite her. "It is very reliable."
As Carly ate the surprisingly tasty cheap biscuit, she pointed at the brown, blocky capybara in his lap. "So, how did you even learn how to do this? I can barely sew a button back on my shirts, and you’re out here making 3D rodents."
"I found a book," Arlen explained, his vacant left eye blinking slowly. "It was in the manor’s library. It had a picture of a very fluffy sheep on the cover. I wanted to know how the sheep’s hair became a sweater. The book explained the process. It was very logical. You loop the yarn, and then you loop it again."
"Just... loop it and loop it again?" Carly chuckled, shaking her head. "I think you’re oversimplifying it a bit, but okay. What about the needles?"
"These are bamboo," Arlen said, holding up the smooth wooden tools. "They do not click as loudly as the metal ones. Ms. Mika does not like loud noises, so I use these."
Carly’s expression softened slightly. For all of Mika’s rants about Arlen being a master manipulator, he seemed entirely devoid of malice. He was just... quiet. And incredibly literal. As the afternoon wore on, Carly found herself asking him about all sorts of mundane things—his favorite foods, what he thought of the local diner, and how he managed to stay so calm.
Arlen answered every question with deadpan patience. He explained that he liked the diner because the people there are kind, and that he liked scrambled eggs because they were "efficient."
The easy, quiet atmosphere in the barren room was suddenly shattered by the sharp, echoing sound of the penthouse’s front door unlocking.
Mika’s signature high heels clicked aggressively against the marble foyer. "Carly? Are you still here? I saw your car downstairs!" her voice rang out, commanding and loud.
Carly froze, a half-eaten biscuit hovering near her mouth. "Oh, boy," she whispered.
"Carly?" Mika’s footsteps grew louder as she walked into the living room. She noticed the documents on the center table, but she also heard the faint sound of voices coming from the far end of the hallway. Her brow furrowed in immediate suspicion.
She marched down the hall and threw the guest room door open with a sharp, dramatic yank.
"Carly, what are you—"
Mika stopped dead in her tracks. Her fiery red hair seemed to practically bristle with shock and outrage.
There, sitting on the bare wooden slats of the bed frame, was her personal assistant and best friend, holding a cheap chocolate biscuit. Opposite her sat Arlen, calmly holding a half-knitted plush capybara. The room smelled faintly of sweet chocolate and wood shavings.
"What," Mika whispered, her eyes darting between the two of them, her voice dropping to a dangerously low, fierce register, "is going on in here?"
Carly quickly swallowed her biscuit, offering a sheepish, guilty grin. "Hey, boss! I was just... checking on your roommate."
Arlen slowly turned his head to look at Mika, his expression entirely blank. "Hello, Ms. Mika. Ms. Carly is very nice. She likes the chocolate biscuits too."
Mika felt her blood pressure spike to dangerous levels. She stared at her best friend, her chest heaving with a mixture of betrayal and utter disbelief. "Carly. Living room. Now."