Liam sweeps into the living room, his presence loud and vibrant, a sharp contrast to the spectral silence Arlen usually leaves behind. He tosses his keys onto the marble island—the very spot where Arlen's cheap rice container had sat only moments ago—and begins to unbutton his designer blazer.
"Smells like... garlic and cheap spices in here," Liam notes, wrinkling his nose as he looks toward the kitchen. "Did you actually order from that bistro I told you to avoid? Or is the 'guest' finally making himself at home in your pantry?"
Milia's hand tightens around the stem of the rose bouquet. For years, she had found Liam's arrogance charming, a reflection of her own high standards. But now, hearing him dismiss Arlen's meager existence as a joke makes her skin crawl. She thinks of the crumpled bills in her pocket, the sweat on Arlen's brow, and the way he looked at her with such terrifyingly pure gratitude just for a phone call.
"It was just a quick lunch, Liam. Don't be a snob," she says, her voice coming out a little sharper than intended. She sets the roses down—not in a vase, but just leaving them on the counter. "And Arlen is... unwell. He's staying in his room. Don't go back there. I don't want you catching whatever he has."
"Unwell? More like 'unemployed and lazy,'" Liam scoffs, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window to admire the view he considers his future inheritance. "I still can't believe your grandfather is making you play house with a charity case. But hey, one month down. Let's celebrate that we're twenty percent closer to the end of this nightmare."
Milia doesn't answer. She moves toward the hallway, her silk robe whispering against the floorboards. As she passes the guest wing, she pauses. She knows Arlen is behind that door, likely sitting in the dark, clutching the phone she gave him as if it's a lifeline. She imagines him hearing Liam's laughter—hearing the man who is supposed to be her "perfect match" call him a nightmare.
She reaches for the handle of the guest room door, her fingers hovering over the wood. She wants to tell him she'll be back soon. She wants to tell him not to dare move an inch until she can take him to resign properly.
"Milia? You okay, baby?" Liam calls out from the foyer.
"Fine!" she snaps, pulling her hand away. She leans closer to the door, her voice a barely audible hiss intended only for the ghost inside. "Eat the food, Arlen. And stay on that phone."
She doesn't wait for a response. She ducks into her master suite, slamming the door.
Inside her walk-in closet, surrounded by thousands of dollars in couture and rows of designer shoes, Milia looks at herself in the mirror. She looks perfect. She looks successful. She looks exactly like the woman Liam wants to take to a five-star restaurant.
But as she reaches for a stunning backless gown, her fingers brush the heavy, cold titanium of her credit card in her purse. She thinks of the vet's office, the smell of antiseptic, and the way Arlen's hand felt—fragile and burning—when she pulled him into the car.
"One month," she whispers to her reflection, her hazel eyes hard and unreadable.
She wasn't celebrating the end of a trial. She was realizing, with a sense of impending dread, that the more she tried to hide Arlen from her life, the more he was becoming the only part of it that felt real.
Ten minutes later, she emerges, a vision in shimmering gold, her face a masterpiece of practiced composure. Liam is waiting, beaming, ready to showcase his prize to the world.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, taking her hand.
As they head for the door, Milia glances one last time at the silent hallway. She wonders if Arlen is watching through the crack in his door, watching the "great Milia Madrigal" walk away into her perfect life, leaving him behind in the shadows with nothing but a dying cat's hope and a stranger's phone.
"Let's go," she says to Liam, her voice cold and decisive. "I want to get this over with."
Liam leads her toward the elevator, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back—a gesture of ownership that usually made her feel secure, but now feels strangely heavy. As the doors glide shut, sealing them in the mirrored car, Milia catches her reflection. She is draped in gold, every diamond in place, but her eyes are darting toward her phone, waiting for a notification from a 24-hour vet clinic.
"You're quiet tonight," Liam observes, his gaze traveling over her in the mirror. "Still stressed about the album? Or did that... 'creature' back there do something to annoy you?"
"He's just pathetic, Liam. It's exhausting to be around," Milia replies, the lie smooth and practiced, yet it tastes like ash. She forces a small, dismissive laugh. "He's sick. I think the reality of being an Adelaide without a trust fund finally caught up to his immune system."
Liam chuckles, a dry, satisfied sound. "Good. Maybe he'll do us a favor and withdraw from the trial early. I've already talked to my father about the merger once he's out of the picture. The Madrigal-Adelaide pact is a relic, Milia. We're the future."
The elevator reaches the lobby, and they step out into the humid evening air. Liam's driver is waiting, holding the door of the obsidian-black sedan. As they pull away from the curb, Milia looks up at the towering height of her penthouse. Somewhere up there, in the dark, Arlen is sitting on the floor with a phone that has only four contacts, probably staring at the door she just slammed.
The restaurant is one of those exclusive spots where the lighting is dim and the privacy is expensive. Liam orders for both of them—a habit she used to find romantic, but now feels like another layer of control. Throughout the first course, he talks about his latest real estate venture, the gala they're attending next week, and how 'brave' she is for enduring the 'charity case' in her home.
"To one month," Liam says, raising a glass of vintage Cristal—the same brand Milia had used to humiliate Arlen only a week ago.
Milia raises her glass, but she doesn't drink. She's thinking about the way Arlen looked when he swallowed the champagne she forced on him. She's thinking about the pink flush of his cheeks and the way he said she was 'kind' even while his world was spinning.
Her phone buzzes in her clutch.
She reaches for it with a speed that startles Liam. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she looks at the screen. It's a text. Not from the vet.
**[19:14] Arlen:** [I am sorry to bother you, Miss Milia. I finished the food. Thank you again. I will go to the club myself to settle my resignation to not bother you on your date.]
After sending the message, Arlen slid on to his sandals and hopes for the best as he goes back to the lion's den, the 'Queen's Selection'.
Milia's thumb freezes over the screen. The light of the display reflects in her eyes, turning her hazel gaze into something cold and terrifying. Her heart, which had been heavy with a strange, lingering guilt, suddenly kicks into a frantic, angry gallop.
I told you to stay.
The words she'd hissed at him in the hallway weren't a suggestion; they were an order. And he—the "obedient ghost," the "submissive shadow"—was currently walking out into the night to disobey her.
"Milia? Who is it? Your manager?" Liam asks, his voice sounding thin and unimportant against the roar of blood in her ears. He reaches across the table, his hand trying to cover hers. "Ignore it, baby. Tonight is about us."
Milia pulls her hand away as if his touch burned her. She stands up so abruptly that her chair screeches against the polished floor, drawing the attention of every high-society diner in the room.
"I have to go," she says, her voice a sharp, clinical blade. She's already grabbing her clutch, her movements a blur of gold silk and desperation.
"Go? Now? We haven't even had the main course!" Liam stands up, his confusion turning into a flash of wounded ego. "Is it the studio? A PR thing? Milia, sit down, whatever it is, it can wait—"
"It can't," she snaps, turning her back on him. She doesn't offer an explanation; she doesn't offer an apology. She simply strides out of the five-star restaurant, her heels clicking a rhythmic, frantic beat.
She is the great Milia Madrigal. She doesn't chase people. But the thought of Arlen standing in Ren's office—fragile, recovering, and so desperately 'polite' that he'd let a wolf talk him back into a sheep's clothing—makes her feel like she's suffocating.
She dials his new number as she runs toward the valet, her heart hammering.
***
Inside the 'Queen's Selection', the air is already beginning to hum with the early-evening crowd. The scent of expensive gin and tobacco clings to the velvet drapes. Arlen, standing at the entrance in his worn sweater and sandals, looks like a smudge of grey paint on a gold leaf canvas.
He's already been spotted.
"Arlen! My Tragic Prince!" Ren's voice calls out, dripping with a terrifyingly warm, predatory affection. The manager emerges from the shadows of the lounge, his eyes scanning Arlen's pale, drawn face. He sees the vulnerability, the exhaustion, and he smells an opportunity to tighten the leash. "I heard you were unwell. Vivienne was devastated. But here you are, dedicated as always."
"Ren... I... I'm not here to work," Arlen whispers, his hands shaking as they clutch the hem of his sweater. "I'm here to... to resign. I can't come back."
Ren's smile doesn't falter, but his eyes turn as hard as marbles. He steps closer, his hand coming up to rest heavily on Arlen's shoulder—a grip that is more of a restraint than a greeting.
"Resign? After the investment I've made? After the advances?" Ren tuts, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, manipulative purr. "Come now, Arlen. You're just tired. Let's go to my office. We'll talk about a raise. A little extra just for you."
***
The screech of tires echoes outside the club as Milia's SUV swerves onto the curb. She doesn't wait for a valet; she leaves the car running, the door hanging open.
She storms through the heavy oak doors of the 'Queen's Selection' like a goddess of vengeance. The music is just starting to swell, but her presence silences the room faster than a power outage. She sees them near the back—Ren's hand on Arlen's shoulder, Arlen's head bowed, looking like he's about to crumble under the weight of his own politeness.
"Take your hands off him," Milia commands, her voice projecting with a power that stops Ren mid-sentence.
She marches through the club, her gold gown shimmering under the chandeliers, a stark, brilliant contrast to the dark dealings of the room. She stops right in front of them, her eyes flashing with a cold, aristocratic fire.
"Miss Madrigal?" Ren's voice is a mix of shock and wary delight. "A return visit? I'm afraid the Prince is currently in a private meeting—"
"The 'Prince' is leaving," Milia interrupts, stepping between them. She grabs Arlen's hand—it's cold, clammy, and trembling—and pulls him behind her, shielding his slight frame with her own body. "And his resignation is effective immediately. If there are any outstanding 'advances' or 'debts,' have your lawyers send the invoice to the Madrigal estate. We'll settle it by morning."
Ren's face darkens. "He has a contract, Milia. This isn't how things are done—"
"This is how I do them," she says, leaning in until she's staring Ren directly in the eye, her voice dropping to a low, terrifying vibration. "If you ever approach him again, or if I find out you've tried to contact him, I will not only buy this building and turn it into a parking lot, but I will make sure every 'Queen' in this city knows exactly how you treat your talent. Do I make myself clear, or do I need to start making calls?"
The silence in the club is absolute. Arlen is clutching her hand, his breath hitching in soft, terrified gasps behind her.
Milia doesn't wait for an answer. She turns, her grip on Arlen's hand iron-clad, and leads him out of the club, past the stunned socialites and the confused hosts. She pulls him through the doors and into the warm, humid Manila night.
She shoves him toward the passenger seat of her SUV, her movements rough with a mixture of anger and adrenaline. She slams the door behind him and marches to the driver's side, her gown catching on the gear shift as she pulls away from the curb with a violent jerk.
"You are an idiot," she breathes, her voice trembling as she weaves through traffic. She doesn't look at him. She keeps her eyes on the road, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "I told you to stay. I told you I would take you. And you went back there... in sandals... to 'apologize' to a shark?"
She lets out a sharp, jagged sound—half-laugh, half-sob.