Among the sea of glittering diamonds, tailored suits, and false smiles, a pair of piercing, fiery eyes remained fixed on the far corner of the grand hall.
Mika stood near a marble pillar, partially shielded by a large floral arrangement. She wore a stunning, emerald-green designer gown that complemented her fierce, fiery red hair, looking every bit the high-profile star she was. As a Rivera and one of the country’s most successful artists, securing an invitation to an Adelaide gala was effortless. She had simply told her manager she wanted to network with some of the international logistics executives.
But she hadn’t spoken to a single executive. Her champagne glass remained full and untouched in her hand.
Since she had arrived, her gaze had been glued to Arlen.
She had wanted to prove herself right. She had come here expecting to see him drop the "obedient martyr" act the moment he stepped into his family’s territory. She had expected to see him coddled, surrounded by wealth and women, boasting to his cousins, or at least sitting at the main table with his grandfather.
Instead, she was forced to watch this.
Arlen sat completely alone at a table meant for six, tucked so far into the shadows he was practically invisible to the rest of the room. While Tristan basked in the spotlight, receiving applause and praise from Julius, Arlen was treated like a piece of furniture left in a storage closet.
Mika watched as Arlen slowly shifted in his seat. It was a tiny, subtle movement, but she caught the way his shoulders tensed and how his hand briefly hovered near his lower back before dropping back into his lap. He was still in pain. The bruise from the marble table—the injury *she* had caused in her blind rage—was still tormenting him, yet he sat there perfectly upright, enduring it in silence.
A sudden, heavy lump formed in Mika’s throat.
She thought of her penthouse. She had relegated him to a barren room with no mattress, banned him from her kitchen, forced him to sleep on bare wooden slats, and screamed at him for trying to keep her warm. And here, in his own family’s home, he was relegated to the dark, ignored by his grandfather, and left with nothing but a single glass of orange juice.
There was no "long game." There was no grand, sophisticated manipulation tactic. Arlen wasn’t playing a character to make her look like a monster.
He was just a boy who had probably never known what it felt like to be wanted.
"Mika? Is that you?"
A smooth, wealthy voice broke her focus. Mika blinked, quickly masking her expression as she turned to face a young socialite she recognized from previous charity galas.
"Oh, hello, Bianca," Mika said, her voice instantly adopting her polished, professional tone.
"I thought that was you! You look absolutely stunning," Bianca gushed, before her eyes drifted toward the dark corner of the room where Arlen sat. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a gossipy whisper. "Hey, do you know who that is over there? The gorgeous guy sitting alone? I tried to say hi earlier, but he just stared at me like I was a ghost. It was so weird."
Mika’s grip on her champagne glass tightened. Her fierce eyes flickered back to Arlen, who was currently tracing a circle in the condensation on his glass.
"He’s... Arlen Adelaide," Mika said, her voice tight.
"Oh, an Adelaide huh?" Bianca scoffed softly, waving a hand dismissively. "Can’t say I recognize the name. Is he a distant relative or something?"
"He is Julius Adelaide’s direct grandson," Mika said, her tone suddenly dropping several degrees, sharp enough to cut right through the upbeat hum of the room.
Bianca blinked, taken aback by the sudden frost in the pop star’s voice. "Oh. Well, I mean... he’s sitting all the way back there by the service entrance. He doesn’t exactly act like the heir to an empire. He didn’t even say a word to me."
"Maybe he just didn’t find you interesting enough to waste his breath on," Mika countered smoothly, taking a slow sip from her champagne flute without breaking her gaze from the far corner. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, Bianca. I have business to attend to."
Before the socialite could muster a reply, Mika turned on her heel and walked away, her emerald-green train gliding over the polished marble floor.
Her chest burned with an unfamiliar, chaotic mix of fury and protective instinct. She hated that other people were looking at Arlen like he was broken, and she hated even more that she had spent the last two weeks doing the exact same thing.
Up on the elevated platform, the applause swelled as Tristan finished his speech. The golden boy bowed gracefully, soaking in the admiration before stepping down to join the patriarch at the primary VIP table. Guests immediately swarmed Tristan to offer their congratulations, hands reaching out to shake his, champagne glasses chiming in a chorus of hollow praise.
Arlen, however, remained untouched by the commotion. He reached for his glass of orange juice with both hands, taking a quiet, measured sip.
As the crowd around the VIP table dispersed slightly, Tristan’s gaze drifted across the expansive hall, finally landing on the isolated corner where his cousin sat. A smirk tugged at the corner of Tristan’s mouth. Excusing himself from a pair of investors, he casually strolled over to the six-person table, swirling a fresh glass of vintage champagne.
Mika stopped near a decorative pillar a few paces away, pretending to check her clutch while keeping her ears tuned to the interaction.
"Well, well," Tristan said, coming to a halt in front of Arlen. He leaned slightly over the table, his posture radiating patronizing arrogance. "They actually let you out of the shadows tonight, Arlen. I was wondering if Grandfather would bother inviting you at all."
Arlen slowly set his orange juice down. He tilted his head back, his thick bangs parting just enough for his left eye to fix upon his cousin. His expression was as blank and serene as a calm lake.
"Hello, Tristan," Arlen said, his androgynous voice soft and entirely unbothered. "Congratulations on the shipping containers."
Tristan’s smirk twitched, clearly irritated by the lack of reverence. He placed a hand firmly on the back of one of the empty chairs, leaning in closer. "They’re logistics hubs, Arlen, not just ’containers.’ Though I suppose complex commerce is a bit beyond what your head can handle. How’s the arranged marriage going? Grandfather said you’re staying with the Rivera girl. Has she figured out what a useless, hollow doll you are yet?"
Behind the pillar, Mika’s knuckles turned white around her champagne glass. Her fiery temper flared hot, an overwhelming urge to march over and shatter the crystal against Tristan’s expensive jaw rising in her throat.
Yet Arlen simply blinked. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look down in shame, and didn’t offer a biting retort.
"Ms. Mika is very kind," Arlen replied deadpan, his voice carrying that same melodic, literal tone. "She gave me a comforter that smells like lavender. It is very soft."
Tristan let out a loud, mocking scoff, shaking his head with theatrical pity. "A blanket? You’re proud of receiving a blanket like a stray dog thrown a scrap? You really are pathetic, Arlen. Grandfather keeps you around as a blunt instrument, and you just sit there and smile. You’re an embarrassment to our family."
"I am not smiling," Arlen corrected gently, pointing a finger at his entirely flat mouth. "My face is straight. But I hope your containers arrive safely at their destinations."
Tristan stared at him, frustrated by the complete absence of an emotional reaction. It was like trying to insult a stone wall. With a sneer of disgust, Tristan clicked his tongue. "Stay in your corner, Arlen. Don’t wander near the guests."
With that, Tristan turned and strutted back toward the bright lights of the main hall, leaving Arlen once again in complete silence.
Arlen watched his cousin walk away, then looked down at his glass of orange juice. The ice had almost completely melted.
A few feet away in the shadows, Mika stood trembling with silent rage. Seeing Arlen endure that kind of cold, venomous cruelty from his own family—and brushing it off as if he had grown entirely numb to it his whole life—struck a chord deep in her chest. She realized, with devastating clarity, that her penthouse hadn’t been the start of Arlen’s mistreatment. It was just the latest room in a lifetime of being treated like an unfeeling tool.
***
The chime of a silver spoon against a crystal glass echoed through the grand hall, drawing the guests’ attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please," the master of ceremonies announced, his voice booming through the speakers. "Before we conclude this spectacular evening, we request all members of the Adelaide family to please gather on the main stage for a commemorative family portrait."
A wave of polite murmurs and applause rippled through the crowd. Julius Adelaide stood up from the VIP table, his stern face holding a rare look of dynastic pride as he leaned on his cane. Tristan stepped up beside him, adjusting his cuffs, radiating the smug aura of the golden heir. Other aunts, uncles, and cousins began to filter onto the platform, laughing and adjusting their designer garments as the event photographer set up a large tripod.
Mika’s eyes darted instantly to the dark corner of the room.
Arlen sat perfectly still. He watched his family gather on the brightly lit stage. He didn’t stand up to join them. He didn’t look hopeful, nor did he look expectant. No one turned to look for him. No one called his name. Julius didn’t scan the room for his other grandson, and Tristan certainly didn’t invite him up. To the Adelaide family, the portrait was complete without him. He was a ghost they had successfully exorcised from their perfect public image.