Mika let out a dry, quiet breath that was almost a laugh, though she quickly caught herself and crossed her arms tightly. She stepped a few inches into the room, her gaze drifting down to the stuffed animal. "Is that the secret project? It looks... ridiculous."
"It is almost finished," Arlen said, entirely unbothered by her critique. He gently patted the square head of the knitted capybara. "It only needs its ears. And then I must knit a small orange to put on its head."
"An orange?" Mika’s brow furrowed. "Why would you put an orange on its head?"
"Because they are very peaceful when they bathe with citrus," Arlen explained deadpan, his voice melodic and steady. "I thought it would be nice. It sounds fresh. Like the lavender on these blankets."
Mika’s eyes flickered to the charcoal comforter pulled over his lap. She felt a sudden, uncomfortable warmth creep up her neck. "I told you. Those were just taking up space in my closet. Don’t make a big deal out of it."
"I am not making a big deal," Arlen murmured. "I am only observing that they are very warm. My back does not ache as much tonight because of the pillow. It is much softer than the sweaters."
He looked up at her, his expression completely blank, yet his gaze held a terrifyingly pure sincerity. He wasn’t trying to guilt her. He wasn’t trying to make her feel like a savior. He was simply stating a physical fact: he was comfortable, and he was grateful.
Mika swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. She had spent the last two weeks treating this man like an unwanted parasite, relegating him to a barren room, shoving him into a marble table, and mocking him with her boyfriend. Yet, here he was, quietly thanking her for trash blankets and worrying about her throat.
It was infuriating. It was deeply, profoundly unsettling.
"Whatever," Mika muttered, backing toward the door, her pride frantically scrambling to rebuild the walls he so effortlessly dismantled just by being polite. "Just... turn the light off soon. I don’t want you wasting my electricity."
"Okay," Arlen replied obediently. "I will turn it off when I finish the ears."
Mika didn’t say anything else. She pulled the door shut, the click of the latch signaling her retreat. But as she walked down the dark hallway toward her master bedroom, the heavy, suffocating silence of the penthouse didn’t feel like a victory anymore. It just felt empty.
***
Deep in the night, the penthouse was swallowed by a heavy, freezing darkness.
Mika stirred in her plush bed, her throat feeling incredibly dry and parched. The intense, hours-long vocal rehearsal at the studio had finally caught up to her, leaving her mouth tasting of dust. With a quiet groan, she slipped out from under her duvet. Not wanting to disturb the quiet, she didn’t turn on the hallway lights, instead navigating the dark corridor by memory, her bare feet making no sound against the cold floor.
As she approached the end of the hallway where it opened into the vast living area, she noticed a faint, pale blue glow.
She stopped.
Standing by the kitchen island, bathed in the cool moonlight filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, was Arlen. He was dressed in his oversized shirt, holding his simple tumbler under the sink’s faucet. The quiet hum of the running water was the only sound in the penthouse.
Instinctively, Mika stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the darkness of the hallway wall. She didn’t want to deal with him right now. She didn’t want to explain why she was up, and she certainly didn’t want to break the fragile, quiet truce they had established earlier. She decided to wait until he went back to his room.
But before Arlen could finish filling his cup, a soft, muted vibration buzzed from his pocket.
Arlen set the tumbler down on the marble counter and pulled out his phone. He swiped the screen and held it to his ear. Because of the absolute, dead silence of the night, the voice on the other end of the line leaked through the speaker, carrying clearly to where Mika was hiding.
"Young Master Arlen," a voice greeted. It was crisp, perfectly articulated, and incredibly formal.
It was Thomas, the Adelaide family’s long-standing head of security and Julius Adelaide’s personal butler. He spoke with the flawless, practiced politeness of a high-society servant, but his tone was entirely hollow—devoid of any genuine warmth, respect, or humanity. It was the tone one used when addressing a highly efficient piece of machinery.
"Hello, Sir Thomas," Arlen replied softly, his androgynous voice airy and calm in the quiet kitchen.
"I am calling to deliver a direct instruction from the Patriarch," Thomas continued, his voice flat and transactional. "There will be a celebratory gathering at the Adelaide manor in three days. The Patriarch orders your presence. You are expected to arrive no later than seven in the evening."
Arlen blinked slowly, staring out at the sparkling city skyline through the glass. "A celebration?"
"Yes," Thomas replied, his tone carrying a subtle, sharp edge. "Young Master Tristan has successfully finalized the overseas launch of his new logistics firm. Master Julius wishes for the entire family to be present to honor his achievement. You are to dress appropriately and ensure your conduct does not embarrass the family."
Mika’s breath hitched slightly in the darkness.
Tristan. She knew of him. He was Arlen’s cousin—the brilliant, golden-child businessman of the Adelaide family, frequently featured in financial magazines for his sharp mind and aggressive corporate expansion. He was the grand-nephew Julius proudly paraded around high society.
And then there was Arlen.
As Mika listened, she realized with a jarring sense of clarity how vastly different their worlds were. Thomas spoke to Arlen not as a beloved heir of a billionaire empire, but as an afterthought. An asset to be summoned, commanded, and warned not to cause embarrassment. Even her own assistant, Carly, treated her with mischievous warmth and banter. But Arlen, the supposed "spoiled, manipulative prince" she had spent two weeks trying to break, was spoken to like a dog being whistled back to its kennel.
"I understand," Arlen murmured, his expression remaining entirely blank in the moonlight. "I will be there. Please tell my grandfather I will not be late."
"Very well, Young Master. Have a productive evening."
The line went dead with a soft, electronic beep.
Arlen slowly lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen for a few seconds before slipping it back into his pocket. He picked up his water tumbler, took a slow, quiet sip, and stood perfectly still in the center of the moonlit kitchen. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look envious of his cousin’s grand celebration, nor did he look hurt by the butler’s cold, disrespectful tone. He simply stood there, a beautiful, silent statue, accepting his instructions with the same eerie, literal obedience he gave to her.
Behind the wall, Mika pressed her back harder against the plaster, her heart thumping quietly in her chest.
For the past two weeks, she had convinced herself that Arlen was a master manipulator, a pampered heir playing a psychological game to win her favor. But hearing that phone call... seeing him stand alone in the dark, treated like a tool by his own family... the narrative she had constructed began to fracture even further.
She watched from the shadows as Arlen quietly turned and began to walk back toward the hallway, his steps slow and guarded to protect his bruised lower back. Mika quickly stepped deeper into the darkness of a recessed alcove, holding her breath as he passed her.
He didn’t notice her. He simply walked back to his room, the soft click of his door sealing him back into his quiet, lavender-scented sanctuary.
Mika stood in the dark hallway for a long time, her throat still dry, but the urge to drink water completely forgotten. She stared at the empty kitchen, the pale moonlight casting long, cold shadows across the marble floor, leaving her with a heavy, unsettling weight in her chest that she didn’t know how to carry.
***
The three days that followed passed in a tense, quiet blur.
True to his nature, Arlen did not breathe a single word about the upcoming family gathering. He didn’t drop hints, he didn’t complain about his cold family dynamics, and he certainly didn’t ask Mika to accompany him as his plus-one. He understood the rules perfectly. Mika had demanded absolute secrecy. The non-disclosure agreements were legally binding, and more importantly, she had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with his life. To Arlen’s literal, uncomplicated mind, inviting her to a family event was a logical impossibility. It would violate her rules, and Arlen did not violate rules.
Mika, however, spent those three days in a state of quiet, agonizing hyper-awareness.
Every time she saw him slip out of his room to grab water, she found herself staring at him, the memory of the butler’s cold, transactional voice echoing in her mind. She kept waiting for him to break. She expected him to use the grand family event as a bargaining chip—to try and manipulate her into playing the doting fiancée in front of his wealthy grandfather. But the silence from his end was absolute.