Turning back around, she noticed how he was sitting. Even on the soft leather sofa, Arlen wasn’t leaning back. His spine remained locked in a rigid, protective line, his shoulders slightly hunched to keep the pressure off his lower back. The six-kilometer walk in the freezing wind had clearly aggravated the severe bruising, and the color was only slowly returning to his pale cheeks.
Without a word, Mika marched down the hallway.
She bypassed the barren guest room entirely and entered her own master bedroom. From her walk-in linen closet, she pulled out a thick, plush fleece throw and an extra down-filled pillow. Returning to the living room, she tossed the pillow behind Arlen’s back and draped the heavy fleece over his shoulders.
Arlen blinked as the sudden, cloud-like warmth enveloped him. He tilted his head, looking down at the plush fabric, then up at Mika.
"Is this also extra trash?" Arlen asked softly, his tone entirely sincere without a single trace of sarcasm. "It is very fluffy."
A hot flush crept up Mika’s neck, the guilt in her chest flaring painfully at the reminder of her past cruelty.
"No," she said, her voice dropping to a quiet, uncharacteristically subdued register. "It’s not trash, Adelaide. It’s just a blanket. Stop calling things trash."
"Okay," Arlen replied obediently, leaning back slightly. When his bruised back met the soft down pillow instead of hard wood or unyielding leather, a faint, relieved sigh slipped past his lips. "The blanket is very comfortable."
Mika stood beside the coffee table, crossing her arms tightly as she watched him take another slow sip of the chamomile tea. She thought of the cold, condescending words Tristan had spat at him, and how Arlen had defended her using the scent of lavender. The contrast between his unshakeable quiet grace and the hostility he had endured from everyone around him—including her—made her stomach turn.
"Did you take your pills before you left for the party?" Mika asked suddenly, keeping her gaze fixed on the steam rising from his cup.
Arlen paused, processing the question. "No. I forgot. Because I was in a hurry to leave earlier."
"Of course you did," Mika sighed, shaking her head. She walked into his dark guest room, retrieved the box of pain relievers from the single chair where his biscuit staircase still stood in neat order, and brought it back with a fresh glass of water.
She popped two tablets out and placed them on the table in front of him.
"Take them. Right now."
Arlen set the empty tea mug down, picked up the pills, and swallowed them with the water. "Thank you, Ms. Mika. You are very attentive to the plum."
Mika pressed her lips together into a thin line, refusing to let him see the crack in her composure. She took the empty mug and the glass, setting them aside, but she didn’t retreat to her room. Instead, she sat down on the opposite end of the vast sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest.
For several minutes, there was only the quiet hum of the penthouse’s climate control and the distant murmur of the city below.
"From now on," Mika began, her voice steadying as she laid down new terms, though this time they carried no venom, only a fierce, awkward stubbornness, "the rules are changing."
Arlen turned his head toward her, the dark bangs shifting over his veiled right eye. He listened with his usual, absolute focus.
"First," Mika said, pointing a finger at him, "if you are ever locked out again, you ring the doorbell. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of something. You ring the bell. You do not stand outside like a stray dog, and you certainly do not walk six kilometers on an injured back. Do you understand?"
Arlen blinked. "Even if it makes you yell?"
"Even if it makes me yell," Mika declared firmly, her fierce eyes locking onto his. "My voice can handle it. Your spine cannot."
Arlen considered this for a moment before giving a slow, polite nod. "I understand. I will ring the bell."
"Second," Mika continued, looking away toward the kitchen, "you are no longer banned from the kitchen. If you’re hungry, you eat whatever is in the fridge. You don’t have to walk down to that greasy diner just to eat eggs, and you don’t have to live off bread and biscuits like a prisoner."
"I’m having a proper mattress delivered for your room tomorrow morning. Until then, you can take the pillows and the fleece. No more sleeping on bare wooden slats." she added.
Arlen looked down at the soft fleece wrapped around his shoulders, his pale fingers lightly clutching the edges. He didn’t look triumphant, nor did he look smug that her defenses had fallen. He simply looked peaceful, accepting her revised instructions as calmly as he had accepted the cruel ones.
"You are very accommodating, Ms. Mika," Arlen murmured softly, his androgynous voice carrying an eerie, gentle warmth. "Thank you."
"Shut up and go to sleep," Mika muttered, quickly standing up from the sofa and pulling her oversized pajamas closer around herself. "The pills are going to make you drowsy anyway. Just... make sure you vacate your room before the delivery people arrive tomorrow."
"Okay," Arlen replied.
He slowly gathered the fleece blanket around himself, rising from the soft cushions with careful, guarded movements. Holding the down pillow under his arm, he gave her a small, respectful bow before turning toward the dark hallway.
Mika stood in the dim light of the living room, watching his quiet, retreating silhouette until the guest room door clicked shut. The penthouse felt just as vast and quiet as it had before, but for the first time in two weeks, the heavy, suffocating silence didn’t feel like a battleground.
***
The next morning arrived with a blinding sweep of sunlight across the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Mika had barely slept. She had spent the early hours of the morning pacing her room on the phone, leveraging her celebrity status and considerable wealth to secure an emergency, same-day white-glove delivery from a premier luxury bedding boutique. By eight in the morning, the penthouse doorbell rang—not with hesitant uncertainty, but with the crisp efficiency of high-end delivery personnel.
When Mika opened the door, two delivery men in pristine uniforms stood in the foyer, carefully maneuvering an ultra-thick, multi-layered orthopedic mattress, wrapped in protective silk-sheathed packaging, along with high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and plush goose-down pillows.
"Set it up in the corner room at the end of the hall," Mika instructed briskly, her arms crossed, trying to sound as strictly businesslike as possible. "Take the packaging with you when you leave."
Before the workers could even haul the mattress past the living room, the front door clicked open again. Carly strolled in, holding two iced coffees and a tablet loaded with Mika’s morning schedule. She stopped dead in her tracks, lowering her designer sunglasses to peer over the rims at the massive, five-star luxury mattress being carefully navigated down the corridor.
Carly turned her head toward Mika, a slow, immensely entertained smirk spreading across her face.
"Well, well, well," Carly drawled, walking over and handing Mika an iced coffee. "Look who had a sudden change of heart. Did the ’master manipulator’ cast a spell on you, or did your conscience finally stage a coup?"
"Shut up, Carly," Mika muttered under her breath, taking the coffee and glaring at the floor. "I told you. It was a liability issue. If Grandfather inspected the penthouse again and saw him sleeping on bare wood, it would cause unnecessary drama for this trial. That’s all this is."
"Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you ordered the cloud-tier orthopedic mattress with custom temperature regulation," Carly teased, nudging Mika’s shoulder playfully. "You’re a softie, Rivera. Admit it."
"I am *not* a softie," Mika hissed, her cheeks flushing hot. "I am a pragmatist."
Just then, the door to the guest room swung open from the inside.
Arlen stepped out into the hallway, pausing to let the delivery men finish adjusting the heavy mattress onto the wooden bed frame. He was back in his oversized dark knit sweater, his dark hair falling in soft, tousled waves, the right side of his face modestly shadowed. His visible left eye blinked slowly in the bright morning light, tracking the delivery men as they meticulously tucked the crisp white sheets over the thick mattress.
One of the workers bowed politely to Arlen. "All set, sir. Top of the line. Should feel like sleeping on air."
"Thank you," Arlen replied softly, his androgynous voice airy and sincere. "I hope your backs did not collide with any tables while carrying it."
The delivery worker blinked, visibly confused by the bizarre well-wishing, but offered a polite smile and hurried out after his partner.