On the evening of the third day, the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the penthouse in shades of deep violet and gold. Mika sat on the living room sofa, her phone in her hand, though she hadn’t looked at the screen in twenty minutes. Her ears were tuned to the hallway.
Exactly at six in the evening, the guest room door clicked open.
Mika’s head snapped up.
Arlen stepped into the hallway, and for a moment, Mika’s breath caught in her throat. He had shed his usual oversized, dark knit sweaters. Instead, he wore a tailored, charcoal-black suit that hugged his lean, elegant frame with sharp precision. The dark fabric made his pale skin look almost translucent, and his dark hair was combed back slightly, though the thick bangs still veiled the right side of his face. He looked impossibly beautiful—a striking, ethereal prince.
But his expression was exactly the same. His visible left eye was wide, vacant, and entirely empty of pride or excitement. He carried a dark, simple coat over his arm.
He began to walk toward the foyer, his movements still slightly stiff from the lingering bruise on his back, though he hid it with practiced, quiet grace. He was going to slip out without saying a word to her.
"Where do you think you’re going?"
Mika’s voice cut through the quiet living room, sharp and commanding. She stood up from the sofa, her fiery red hair catching the dimming light as she crossed her arms, her fierce eyes locking onto him.
Arlen stopped just before the foyer. He turned his head slowly to look at her, his left eye blinking once.
"I am going to my grandfather’s house," Arlen replied softly, his androgynous voice carrying its usual deadpan, peaceful tone. "My cousin Tristan is having a celebration. I must be there before seven."
Mika’s jaw tightened. She marched over to him, her heels clicking aggressively, stopping a few feet away. She wanted to press him, to force the "manipulator" to admit his hidden agenda.
"And you were just going to sneak out without telling me?" Mika demanded, her tone laced with disdain. "You’re living in my penthouse, Adelaide. I expect to be informed when you’re leaving."
"I am sorry," Arlen said, bowing his head in a polite, obedient gesture. "I did not want to disturb you. You were looking at your phone."
Mika scoffed, her pride stinging at his simple, unbothered response. "Right. And what about me? We’re supposed to be in an ’arranged marriage trial,’ remember? Aren’t you going to ask your fiancée to accompany you to a family event? Isn’t that what a *good* fiancé would do?"
She was baiting him. She wanted him to ask, so she could triumphantly throw her NDA in his face and reject him.
Arlen tilted his head, his vacant eye staring at her with genuine, quiet confusion.
"No," Arlen said simply.
Mika blinked, her smug composure faltering. "No? What do you mean, ’no’?"
"You said we must keep this a secret," Arlen explained, his voice entirely reasonable and deadpan. "You made me sign papers. If you come with me to the manor, my family will see you. The staff will see you. Then, the secret will not be a secret anymore. That would violate the agreement."
He paused, his left eye blinking slowly as he looked at her fierce, flushed face.
"And you do not like my family," Arlen added quietly. "You do not like me, either. If I force you to go to a party with people you do not like, you will be sad. And then you will yell at me again."
Mika stood frozen, her mouth opening slightly but no sound coming out.
Once again, his logic was flawless, entirely literal, and completely devoid of any hidden malice. He was protecting her secrets and her mood, treating her tyrannical rules as absolute law. He wasn’t playing a game. He was simply obeying her.
And it made her feel utterly, terribly guilty. A feeling she loathes with every fiber of her pride.
"I... I wouldn’t have gone anyway," Mika muttered, her voice dropping its sharp edge as she looked away, her fingers digging into her own arms. "I have better things to do than stand around your snobbish family."
"Yes," Arlen agreed softly, showing no offense. "Tristan’s parties are very loud. There is a lot of champagne, and the people talk about shipping containers for a very long time. It would not be very interesting for you."
He slipped his dark coat over his shoulders, his movements slightly guarded as his lower back twinged. He reached for the doorknob, turning back to give her one last, polite nod.
"I will return before midnight, Ms. Mika. I will not make any noise when I come back."
"Whatever," Mika whispered, her chest tight. "Just... don’t do anything stupid."
With a soft click, the heavy double doors closed, leaving Mika alone in the vast, silent penthouse. She stared at the door, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling incredibly heavy, her mind filled with the image of Arlen—dressed like a prince, but treated like a ghost—walking alone into a house full of people who didn’t care about him.
***
The grand ballroom of the Adelaide estate was a spectacle of blinding luxury. Overhead, massive crystal chandeliers cast a fractured, golden glow across the hundreds of high-society guests, their diamonds and designer silks gleaming under the light. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne, roasted meats, and the low, melodic hum of polite laughter and clinking crystal.
On an elevated platform at the front of the hall, Tristan Adelaide stood beneath a spotlight. He was the picture of corporate perfection—tall, sharply dressed, and radiating a smug, effortless confidence. Holding a flute of vintage champagne, he spoke into the microphone, his voice smooth and practiced as he detailed the massive profit margins of his new overseas logistics firm.
The crowd hung on his every word, offering enthusiastic nods and polite applause. At the VIP table directly below the stage sat Julius Adelaide. The intimidating patriarch looked as stern and sharp as ever, his hands resting on his cane as he gave Tristan a rare, cold nod of approval.
But at the furthest, dimmest corner of the grand hall, the glittering atmosphere of the celebration completely faded.
There, tucked away near a heavy velvet curtain, sat Arlen.
He was seated at a large, round table set meticulously for six people. Five of the chairs were empty, their silver cutlery and polished wine glasses untouched. Arlen sat perfectly straight in the center of the isolation, his immaculate charcoal suit making him look like a tragic, breathtakingly beautiful prince left behind in the shadows. His dark hair fell softly over his face, the thick bangs completely veiling the right side of his face, while his left eye stared blankly ahead.
In front of him sat a single glass of orange juice. Cold condensation ran down the side of the glass, forming a small, clear pool on the pristine white tablecloth.
Arlen didn’t look at the stage. He didn’t listen to Tristan’s speech. His lower back was still throbbing with a dull, heavy ache from the marble table, forcing him to maintain a rigid, guarded posture. He simply stared at the droplets of water sliding slowly down the side of his glass.
*’It is like a race,’* Arlen thought, his vacant mind tracking the droplet’s progress. *’The left droplet is faster than the right droplet.’*
Occasionally, high-society guests would wander near his corner, mostly women, their eyes lingering on his striking, androgynous beauty, clearly charmed. But the moment they caught his completely empty, vacant stare, or his complete lack of interest in them, they would quickly look away, whispering among themselves as they hurried back to the warmth of the crowd.
Arlen didn’t mind the isolation. In fact, he preferred it. The noise of the clinking glasses and the endless talk of shipping containers was very loud, and his back was tired.
He slowly reached out a slender finger, his gray-lined cuff shifting, and gently tapped the condensation pool on the table. He thought about the plush capybara sitting on his bed frame back at the penthouse. He had already finished the ears, but it still needed the small, knitted orange.
He looked at his glass of orange juice, his left eye blinking slowly.
*’Orange juice is made of oranges,’* he noted to himself. *’But you cannot put juice on a capybara’s head. It would make the yarn sticky.’*
Satisfied with this logical conclusion, Arlen folded his hands neatly in his lap and continued his quiet, patient wait for the celebration to end.