By Day Twelve of living with Kaen, I had reached one solid conclusion:
This man was testing me.
He never said it out loud. But the signs were everywhere—cool glances, unreadable silences, the way he moved past me like I was furniture with anxiety issues.
Men like him didn't reject you. They assessed you.
And I?
I was going to pass that test. With extra credit.
Operation: Win the Boss (For Real Estate Purposes)
Step One: Seduction by Kitchen
Apparently, rich men liked to be admired.
So I made breakfast. Two eggs. Heart-shaped. Slightly charred—don't judge. It was symbolic. Deeply.
Kaen was at the dining table, reading something that looked older than the Bible. I placed the plate in front of him and offered, with all the 8 a.m. sincerity I could fake:
"Kaen, you look like a lion deep in thought."
He looked up. Three seconds of silence.
"You're blocking the light. Take these burnt offerings away. Make a new one. Now."
I blinked. He turned a page.
Okay. Not a fan of admiration. Noted.
Step Two: Persistence is Sexy (Allegedly)
Using the contact info on the receipt, I managed to exchange one of those ridiculous dresses for a gift. A tie. For Kaen.
(Yes, clever me—turns out I had a small pile of secret wealth now.)
That's a silver and sequin-covered tie. A statement piece that screamed "business disco."
"It reminded me of you," I said, presenting it like it was a relic. "Strong, confident, a little… sparkly."
He took it. No comment. No expression.
For the next three glorious hours, I thought I'd nailed it.
Then I passed by his study—and there it was. The tie.
Neatly wrapped around a stack of ancient documents, like a glam bondage accessory for medieval texts.
Rudy, hammer in hand, glanced over.
"Hey, Eileen! Kaen said this was from you. It's really beautiful. And practical, too!"
His eyes were genuinely impressed, as if I'd gifted a sacred artifact.
I gave a tight smile.
"Glad someone appreciates it," I muttered.
Step Three: The Moonlight Incident
If gifts didn't work, fate might.
Every night, Kaen took a silent walk in the backyard. And every night, I "happened" to be there too—wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea, appreciating the moon.
"The moon's beautiful tonight, isn't it?" I tried once, soft and wistful.
(Translation: I try so hard, when can I get my house back?)
He didn't even look up. "That's the motion sensor light."
Then into his earpiece: "Rudy. Adjust the backyard path. We have rodents."
Hm. I was the rodent.
Good. I hope I am.
Let me chew through your wires and reclaim my territory.
The Confession
Day Fifteen. Breaking point.
I planned a dinner: candles, flowers, and a playlist called "Classy Seduction for Beginners."
Everything was fine—until the curtains caught fire.
Kaen burst in, all super fireman energy, yanked down the flaming drapes, and stomped them out.
Smoke. Silence. Utter humiliation.
Then: "What the hell are you doing?"
"Experimenting with atmosphere?" I offered weakly.
"Are you trying to die or drive me insane?"
And that was it. I snapped.
"All I have done, these stupid things! I'm trying to win you over, okay?!"
The words echoed like a slap.
He blinked. "You're… trying to what?"
"I know your type! Handsome, smart, rich—you already own everything and still insist on being gentle. You want me, but you like the chase more. And now, you even want me to earn back my own house?
So what—haven't I tried hard enough?!"
I threw my arms out. "I can be your perfect girlfriend! If that's what you want."
My voice cracked.
"You want me, right? Then just say it! Take me! Right here! Right now!
Let's end this stupid game before I burn down another set of curtains!"
I yanked at my shirt. The collar slipped off one shoulder.
Kaen didn't speak.
Not immediately.
He just stood there, silent, eyes unreadable—like he was deciding between strangling me and saving me from myself.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. My throat was tight. The tears that had been threatening to spill now shimmered right at the edge.
Jesus. What am I even saying.
Then—quietly, deliberately—he stepped closer.
I didn't move.
He reached out, gently pulling the collar of my shirt back onto my shoulder. His fingers brushed my skin, feather-light. He didn't look at me when he said:
"Sorry. I don't know."
The words hit like a shiver. Not a rejection. Not quite.
Just… a truth.
I tried to step back, but his hand found my arm—firm but not forceful. Just enough to hold me in place.
His gaze finally met mine. Steady. Warm. A little broken.
"I don't want you."
His voice was low. Rough.
"All I can say now is… I need you."
My breath caught.
Not romantic. Not tender. But honest in the most dangerous way.
He let go.
"Come on," he said softly.
And just like that, he guided me up the stairs. Not a word more. Not a touch out of place.
At my door, he paused. His hand hovered at the knob, then dropped to his side.
"Good night, Eileen."
His voice was back to neutral—polite, smooth, untouchable.
I watched him walk away, his figure swallowed by the dim hallway light.
Then I closed the door. Leaned against it.
And immediately let out a strangled groan.
"Oh my god. I said 'take me.'"
I buried my face in my hands.
"I literally said 'take me.'"
If there had been a hole in the floor, I would've gladly swan-dived into it and never resurfaced.
My cheeks burned.
My pride was dead.
My ovaries were confused.
Perfect.
(End of Chapter 8)