Hearing him dismiss Arlen so easily brought back a strange, bitter taste in Mika’s mouth. Just the other day, her grandfather had called Liam a "pampered child playing at being a man," and she had begrudgingly agreed. Now, watching Liam preen in front of the studio glass, the illusion of his grand, masculine authority felt a little more transparent, a little more fragile.
But she pushed the thought down, her pride refusing to let her doubt her own choices.
"The French place sounds perfect," Mika said, forcing a bright, triumphant smile. She wanted to be seen. She wanted to remind herself-and everyone else-of her perfect life. "I just need to finish up this last track, and then we can go."
"Perfect," Liam smirked, his ego fully stroked as he leaned against the studio console, looking every bit the high-society star he claimed to be. "Take your time, babe. I’ll just be out here, making sure the paparazzi get our good angles when we leave."
Mika returned to the recording booth, the heavy door sealing her back into the soundproofed sanctuary. She tried to channel the same raw, aggressive energy into the microphone, but her focus was fractured. Through the glass, she watched Liam. He was currently charming her sound engineer, laughing at his own jokes and checking his watch with a practiced, impatient elegance.
A week ago, she would have found this sight comforting-a reminder of her high-status world. But now, every time Liam adjusted his cufflinks or ran a hand through his hair, she couldn’t help but think of Arlen sitting on those bare wooden slats, meticulously arranging his biscuits by height. Liam was so *loud*. Everything about him was a performance designed to be seen, while Arlen was a quiet, unmovable fact.
"Mika, let’s take it from the second verse," the engineer’s voice crackled through her headphones. "More heart this time."
She sang, but the lyrics about betrayal and strength felt strangely hollow. After three more takes, she finally stepped out, her throat feeling tight.
"That was it, babe! Absolute fire," Liam exclaimed, stepping forward to tuck a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. "The fans are going to lose their minds. Now, let’s get out of here. I’ve already called ahead to the restaurant. They’ve reserved the corner booth with the best lighting."
As they walked out of the agency, the flashbulbs of a few waiting paparazzi popped. Liam instinctively slowed his pace, pulling Mika closer and tilting his chin just enough to catch the light. He was in his element, the "real man" back on his stage.
Inside the sleek, leather interior of Liam’s sports car, the scent of expensive cologne was almost overwhelming.
"So," Liam started, his voice casual as he pulled into traffic. "How’s the freak doing? Has he finally realized he’s out of his league and called his grandpa to go home?"
Mika stared out the window at the passing city lights. "He’s... still there. He doesn’t say much."
"I bet," Liam chuckled, a sharp, mocking sound. "Probably too busy staring at the wall. I’m telling you, Mika, the guy is a vegetable. A beautiful vegetable, sure, but there’s nothing behind those eyes. It’s actually kind of creepy. You’re doing a public service just by letting him breathe your air."
Mika’s grip on her designer handbag tightened. "He’s not a vegetable, Liam. He’s just... literal. And he’s actually quite skilled at things. He knits."
Liam burst into a loud, genuine laugh, nearly swerving the car. "He knits? Oh, that’s rich! What’s next? Is he going to start baking cookies and wearing an apron? My god, Mika, your grandfather really picked a winner for you. A grandmother in a boy’s body."
Mika didn’t laugh. She thought of the dark blue scarf Arlen had made for her-the one she had told him to throw away. She thought of the tight, professional stitches and the way he had worried about her throat.
"He made me a scarf because I was sneezing," Mika said quietly, her voice almost lost in the hum of the engine.
Liam’s laughter died down, replaced by a flick of irritation. "A scarf? Seriously? That’s his move? How pathetic. He’s trying to buy you off with yarn because he knows he can’t compete with me on any other level. It’s a desperate, low-rent tactic."
They arrived at the restaurant, an ultra-exclusive French bistro where the waiters spoke in hushed tones and the wine list cost more than a mid-sized sedan. Liam was immediately greeted by the head waiter, who led them to their reserved table with a flourish.
Liam spent the first twenty minutes of dinner complaining about the vintage of the wine and the fact that the lighting made his jawline look "soft."
"I told them, the amber filters are better for my complexion," Liam hissed, waving a hand dismissively at the waiter. "Honestly, the service in this city is going downhill."
Mika sat across from him, picking at her escargot. She looked at Liam’s perfectly manicured hands as he gestured wildly, and then she thought of Arlen’s hands-the way his fingertips peeked out of his oversized sleeves, and the way they had moved with such calm, steady precision while he cleaned her balcony with his own shirt.
"Mika? Are you even listening?" Liam asked, his brow furrowing. "I was saying, I think we should tell your grandfather that the trial is a failure. Tell him the guy is mentally unstable or something. Get him out of there so I can come over again without feeling like I’m in a psych ward."
Mika looked up, her fiery eyes meeting Liam’s. For the first time, the arrogance she usually found attractive felt grating.
"I can’t just lie to my grandfather, Liam. He won’t take excuses. Let’s just wait for the five months to pass," Mika said, her voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge. "And besides, he isn’t unstable. He’s just... there. He follows every rule I give him. He doesn’t even use the kitchen."
"Because he’s a dog!" Liam snapped, his insecurity flaring up again at the mere mention of Arlen’s compliance. "He’s a well-trained dog. And you’re letting him live in your house like he’s some kind of saint. It’s annoying, Mika. It’s making me look bad."
"How is it making *you* look bad?" Mika asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous level.
"Because I’m the one who has to wait! I’m the one who had to deal with peanut butter in my hair!" Liam’s voice rose, drawing a few curious glances from the neighboring tables. He quickly lowered it, but his face was flushed with a petulant, childish anger. "I’m the star here. Not him."
Mika leaned back, the expensive French food suddenly tasting like ash in her mouth. She realized, with a jarring sense of clarity, that Liam wasn’t worried about her safety or her comfort. He was worried about his spotlight in her life.
"I’m tired, Liam," Mika said, setting her napkin on the table. "I want to go home."
"What? We haven’t even had the main course!"
"I have a headache," she lied, her voice cold and final. "Take me back."
The drive back to the penthouse was silent and tense. Liam was brooding, his jaw set in a hard line, clearly offended that his "romantic" evening had been cut short. When he pulled up to the curb, he didn’t even get out to open her door.
"I’ll call you tomorrow," Liam muttered, staring straight ahead. "Once you’re in a better mood."
Mika didn’t answer. She stepped out of the car and walked into the building, her heels clicking sharply against the lobby floor.
When she entered the penthouse, it was dark and quiet. She walked down the hallway, her heart rate slowing as the familiar silence of her home enveloped her. She passed the guest room door and stopped.
A faint, warm light was glowing from the gap beneath the door.
Mika hesitated, her hand hovering over the handle. She pushed it open, just a crack.
Arlen was sitting on his bed, wrapped in the blanket she had given him. He was propped up against the fluffy pillow, his wooden needles clicking softly in the dim light of a small reading lamp. He was almost finished with the plush capybara.
He looked up as the door opened, his vacant left eye blinking slowly.
"Hello, Ms. Mika," Arlen murmured, his voice soft and peaceful. "Do you need me for something?"
Mika stood in the doorway, her hand still resting on the cool metal of the doorknob. The scent of lavender from the fresh linens she had thrown at his bed yesterday mingled with the faint, woody scent of his bamboo needles.
She looked at him-really looked at him-propped up against the plush pillow, his pale face partially shadowed by the reading lamp. For a fleeting second, the sheer contrast between the chaotic, loud argument she had just survived with Liam and the absolute, rhythmic stillness of this room made her chest ache with a strange, foreign quiet.
"I just wanted to make sure you weren’t burning my penthouse down with whatever weird hobby you’re doing," Mika said, her voice dropping its usual sharp, performative edge, sounding merely tired.
Arlen paused his needles, holding the brown plush block in his lap. "I do not have matches," he reminded her softly, his vacant left eye blinking in the dim light. "And bamboo does not create sparks. It is very safe."