Determined not to lose this silent battle of wills, Mika scoffed and took a step back into the hallway. "Fine. Since you love the carpentry so much, I hope you enjoy your solid wood. Don’t expect me to play hostess. You feed yourself, you clean up after yourself, and you stay out of my way."
"Okay," Arlen replied instantly, nodding his head in obedience. "I will stay here."
"Good." Mika reached for the doorknob, preparing to slam it shut. "And don’t even think about complaining to your grandfather. If a single word about this room gets out, you’re dead meat."
"I will not complain," Arlen said, his voice fading slightly as he lay down flat on his back across the hard wooden slats, resting his head directly on the bare wood where a pillow should have been. He stared up at the ceiling, his arms neatly folded over his chest like a corpse in a casket. "Goodnight, Ms. Mika."
Mika froze, her hand gripping the doorknob. She stared at the breathtakingly beautiful man lying perfectly still on a literal wooden grate, looking entirely at peace with his life choices. For a second, her brain short-circuited.
Mika’s jaw tightened as she stared at him. The sheer absurdity of the sight-this breathtakingly beautiful man lying flat on bare wooden slats like a saint preparing for martyrdom-made her blood boil. She was convinced this was a psychological game. He wanted her to feel like a monster. He wanted her to pity him, to soften up, and eventually run to her grandfather to beg for a proper bed.
She wasn’t going to fall for it.
"Get up," Mika commanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I’m not finished speaking to you."
With a smooth, eerie grace, Arlen sat up. He didn’t use his hands to push himself up; his core simply engaged, and he rose like a wooden doll being pulled by invisible strings. He sat on the edge of the bare frame, his hands resting neatly on his knees, his single visible eye looking up at her with complete, unbothered obedience.
"First of all," Mika started, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, "that kitchen out there? It’s mine. The fridge, the pantry, the ingredients-everything. You are strictly forbidden from touching any of it. Not a single crumb. The only thing you are permitted to consume from my kitchen is tap water. If you want to eat, you figure it out yourself, outside of this apartment."
Arlen nodded slowly. "Only water. Understood."
"Second," Mika continued, her tone growing even more tyrannical, "you do not live here. You are merely occupying this specific room. You are not allowed to lounge in the living room, you are not allowed to use the dining table, and you are not allowed to loiter in the hallways. You are either in this barren room with the door shut, or you are outside of this penthouse. I do not want to see your face unless it is absolutely unavoidable."
"I will stay in the room or outside," Arlen repeated, his soft, androgynous voice entirely flat. "I will not loiter."
"And lastly-and most importantly," Mika’s eyes flared with a protective, fierce intensity, "my boyfriend, Liam. He is a successful actor and model. He is incredibly busy, highly sensitive to his environment, and he is the only man who belongs in my life. When Liam comes over, you do not exist. You will lock yourself in this room. You will not speak to him, you will not look at him, and you will absolutely not let him see you. If you ruin my relationship, Adelaide, I will make these five months feel like an eternity in hell. Do you understand me?"
Arlen stared at her. The silence stretched for a few seconds as his brain slowly processed the barrage of hostile demands. He blinked once, his expression remaining entirely vacant.
"I understand," Arlen said quietly. Then, he tilted his head, a look of genuine, innocent curiosity crossing his beautiful, empty face. "Is there anything else, Ms. Mika?"
Mika stared at him, her chest heaving with frustrated anger. His utter lack of defiance was deeply unsettling. She had expected him to beg, to negotiate, or at least to show a sliver of the high-society pride he surely possessed. Instead, he sat there like a blank slate, absorbing her hostility as if she were merely reading him a weather report.
"No," she spat, her voice cold and sharp. "That is all. Just remember your place."
She stepped back into the hallway and slammed the heavy door shut with a resounding *thud* that shook the frame.
Inside the guest room, Arlen didn’t flinch at the violent noise. He sat in the silence for a moment, the only light in the room coming from the distant city skyline filtering through the bare window.
With the room plunged back into quiet, Arlen sat on the edge of the bare bed frame for a few more seconds. He didn’t seem at all bothered by the harshness of the rules or the coldness of his reception. To him, instructions were simply things to be followed, and he had already memorized them perfectly.
He slid off the wooden slats and knelt beside his suitcase on the floor. Unzipping it, he began to systematically unpack. One by one, he transferred his shirts and trousers into the dusty, empty wardrobe, hanging them up with careful, slow movements. He didn’t rush. He worked in the dim light of the city skyline, perfectly content in the silence.
When the suitcase was nearly empty, only a few thick, soft knit sweaters remained at the bottom. Arlen stared down at them, his vacant eye blinking slowly as a thought finally connected in his mind.
He picked up two of the heaviest sweaters. With practiced, methodical neatness, he folded them together, pressing down on the soft fabric until they formed a thick, cushioned square.
He walked back over to the bed frame and placed the makeshift sweater-pillow at the head of the wooden slats. Testing it, he lay down flat on his back, resting his head directly on the folded knitwear.
He adjusted his head slightly, feeling the soft wool against his cheek. It was firm, but it kept his head off the hard wood.
"Perfect," he murmurs to himself.
He neatly folded his hands over his chest once more, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift off. Within minutes, he was fast asleep, completely oblivious to the storm of anger brewing just down the hallway.
***
The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long, sharp shadows across the marble floors. Mika sat at the kitchen island, her fingers wrapped tightly around a ceramic mug of black coffee. She hadn’t slept well; the thought of a stranger-a "fiancé"-occupying her space felt like a parasite under her skin. Every small creak of the building made her snap her head toward the hallway, expecting him to be lurking.
The soft *click* of a door opening drew her gaze.
Arlen emerged from the shadows of the far hallway. He was dressed in a dark, oversized knit sweater that seemed to swallow his lean frame, making his silhouette look even more delicate and androgynous. His hair was slightly tousled from the wooden bed, but the thick bangs still perfectly veiled the right side of his face. He looked like a living painting-soft, ethereal, and completely out of place in Mika’s sharp, modern world.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t even seem to notice the aroma of the expensive coffee beans filling the air. He walked with a slow, rhythmic pace toward the foyer, his eyes fixed on the front door.
Mika set her mug down with a deliberate *clack* against the marble. "Leaving already?" she asked, her voice laced with a cold, morning rasp. "I assume you’re going to find a way to feed yourself since you’re barred from my pantry."
Arlen stopped. He turned his head slowly toward her, his left eye blinking with that same vacant, glassy stare. He stood there for a moment, silent, as if he had to manually reboot his brain to process the fact that she was speaking to him.
"Yes," he said softly, his voice airy and calm. "I am going to the diner. The one with the yellow sign. I saw it from the window."
Mika scoffed, leaning back in her stool. "The diner? You’re a billionaire’s grandson and you’re going to eat at a greasy spoon? I suppose that’s part of the act too. The ’humble, mistreated fiancé’ routine."
Arlen tilted his head. He didn’t look offended; he looked genuinely confused. "I like eggs. They have eggs there. I’ll be going now, Ms. Mika."
He walked out the front door and to the elevator. Mika stood at the kitchen island, watching his retreating back. She felt a headache forming behind her eyes. He wasn’t just a threat; he was *weird*. And she couldn’t decide which was worse.