Sensing that the event was reaching its natural conclusion and that his presence was no longer required even as a shadow, Arlen slowly stood up.
Mika watched as his body instinctively tensed, his left hand pressing subtly against his lower back to brace himself against the sharp throb of his bruise. He quietly picked up his dark trench coat from the back of the chair and draped it over his arm. Without a single backward glance at the bright, smiling family posing for the cameras, Arlen turned and slipped quietly through the heavy velvet curtains near the service exit, disappearing into the dark hallway.
*Flash.*
The photographer’s bright light illuminated the stage, capturing a picture-perfect family of billionaires, smiling and united.
But Mika couldn’t see them. The brilliant, flashing light felt blinding, exposing the ugly, raw truth of everything she had done.
Her prejudices, her fierce paranoia, her pride—all of it shattered into a million useless pieces. The narrative she had desperately constructed over the past two weeks to justify her cruelty crumbled. Arlen hadn’t slept on bare wooden slats to manipulate her; he did it because he was used to being treated like an unwanted tool. He hadn’t eaten cheap groceries to play a martyr; he did it because he genuinely didn’t want to be a burden. He had lied to her grandfather, endured a severe injury, and offered her a warm scarf simply because his literal, quiet mind wanted to protect her.
And in return, she had treated him like a monster.
A heavy, suffocating wave of remorse crashed over Mika, so intense it made her chest ache. She looked at her hands, suddenly feeling a deep, profound disgust for her own pride.
*’I have to go,’* her mind screamed.
She set her untouched champagne glass down on a passing waiter’s tray with a trembling hand. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone. She didn’t care about networking, she didn’t care about being here anymore.
Turning away from the glittering, hollow crowd, Mika practically ran toward the main exit. Her emerald-green gown rustled violently as she hurried through the grand lobby, her mind racing. Arlen would have to wait for a cab or take public transit in his stiff, injured state. If she drove fast enough, she could beat him.
Mika practically threw her keycard at the valet, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The moment her sports car was brought around, she tore out of the estate’s driveway, the engine roaring as she navigated the winding roads and surged onto the highway.
Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. The city lights blurred past her window in long, dizzying streaks of gold and white. Her mind was a chaotic storm of remorse and panic.
*"Ms. Mika is very kind. She gave me a comforter that smells like lavender. It is very soft."*
Arlen’s soft, deadpan voice echoed in her head, louder than the hum of her car’s engine. He had defended her. To the cousin who mocked him, to the family that threw him into the dark, Arlen had praised her for throwing her "trash" blankets at him. He had protected her image, even when she wasn’t supposed to be there to see it.
"Stupid... idiot," Mika choked out, a hot, angry tear escaping her eye and sliding down her cheek. She swiped it away aggressively. She wasn’t crying. She was just angry. Angry at Julius, angry at Tristan, but most of all, utterly disgusted with herself.
She had to get back. If Arlen returned and found her gone, or worse, saw her coming home in the emerald-green gown she’s wearing now, he might suspect that she was at the gala too. Her pride couldn’t handle him knowing she had witnessed his humiliation. She couldn’t bear the thought of him looking at her with those vacant, honest eyes, realizing she had seen how unwanted he truly was.
Mika swerved into the penthouse’s secure underground parking lot, parking her car with a sharp screech of the tires. She bolted for the private elevator, tapping her foot frantically as the digital numbers ticked upward.
The moment the elevator doors slid open to her foyer, she rushed inside. The penthouse was dead silent.
*’He’s not back yet,’* she realized, letting out a sharp, ragged breath.
She ran to her master bedroom, her fingers trembling as she reached for the zipper of her designer gown. She stripped out of the emerald silk, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. She grabbed a pair of loose, oversized silk pajamas and threw them on, quickly pulling her hair out of its elegant updo. She shook her fiery red locks loose, letting them fall messy and wild around her shoulders.
She ran a damp towel over her face to wash away the heavy gala makeup, leaving her skin bare and slightly flushed.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Mika walked back into the living room. She switched on a single, dim lamp by the sofa, grabbed a random book from the shelf, and sat down. She opened it to a random page, forcing her posture to look relaxed, even though her muscles were incredibly tense.
She waited.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then an hour.
***
The digital clock on the marble console ticked over to 12:35 AM.
Mika had long since abandoned the facade of reading. The book lay face-down on the sofa cushion as she paced the living room, her silk pajamas whispering against the floorboards. Her anxiety, which had started as a dull throb of impatience, had spiraled into full-blown panic.
*"I will return before midnight, Ms. Mika."*
That was what he had promised. Arlen was infuriatingly literal; if he said midnight, he meant midnight. For him to be over half an hour late meant something had gone wrong. Had his grandfather cornered him? Had Tristan done something worse? Or had his injured back finally given out on the cold city streets?
Every worst-case scenario flashed through her mind, each one tightening the knot of suffocating guilt in her chest.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the heavy double doors, Arlen stood alone in the brightly lit, sterile hallway.
He had just arrived and looked exhausted. The sharp charcoal suit he wore to the gala was dusted with road grime, the chill of the midnight wind clinging to the dark fabric. His breath came a little shorter, and his hand was pressed firmly against the small of his back, his muscles locked in a tight, burning spasm from the miles he had just walked.
It had been an entirely preventable series of events. Because the Adelaide manor had sent a private service vehicle to fetch him earlier that evening, Arlen hadn’t gone through his usual routine of patting his pockets. He had left his leather money pouch—which held his cash, his phone, and his electronic keycard—sitting neatly next to his biscuit staircase in the guest room.
When the cab he hailed after the gala reached the halfway mark, the driver had demanded an upfront fare check. Arlen had checked his empty pockets, calmly offered the driver a ball of lint from his suit pocket as collateral, and was promptly kicked out onto the curb amidst a flurry of colorful profanities.
With no money and no phone, Arlen had simply walked the remaining distance across the city, step by agonizing step, enduring the sharp bite of the cold and the throbbing ache of his bruised spine.
Now, standing outside the door, he raised a slender, pale finger toward the glowing electronic doorbell.
He hesitated. His finger hovered a fraction of an inch from the sensor.
*’If I press it,’* Arlen reasoned in his quiet, literal mind, *’the chime will play. The chime is very loud. It will wake Ms. Mika up from her sleep. When people are woken up suddenly, they become angry. And when Ms. Mika is angry, she yells. Yelling makes her throat sore, and she cannot sing.’*
Deciding it was far more logical to simply stand in the hallway until morning rather than risk angering her, Arlen slowly lowered his hand. He stepped to the side, leaning his shoulder carefully against the wall to take the weight off his aching back, preparing for a long, quiet wait.
Inside, Mika couldn’t take the silence anymore. Marching to the foyer, she tapped the digital security console by the entrance to check the front door’s hallway camera.
Her breath caught.
There he was. Leaning against the wall like a discarded marionette, his head tilted down, his pale face partially hidden under his dark bangs, looking shivering, stiff, and utterly drained.
Mika didn’t think. She grabbed the handle and yanked the heavy door open.
The sudden movement made Arlen blink. He slowly turned his head, his vacant left eye widening slightly as he saw Mika standing in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas, her fiery hair wild around her shoulders.
"Ms. Mika," Arlen murmured softly, his voice raspy from the cold air. "You are awake."
"Why the hell are you standing out here?!" Mika snapped, her voice coming out far more aggressive than she intended, an instinctive defense mechanism to hide how terrified she had just been. "How long have you been standing there? Why didn’t you just use your keycard?!"