Arlen simply smiled while looking at the meal in front of him.
"My mother used to remind me to always appreciate every little blessing life gives. This food I am partaking with you Miss Milia is one of them." Arlen replies.
Milia's fork clinks sharply against her porcelain plate, the sound echoing like a jarring note in a quiet ballad. She freezes, her hand tensing around the silver handle. The mention of his mother—the woman who had been lost to the smoke and the screams while the world watched the Adelaide fortune grow—hits her with a physical weight she wasn't prepared for.
She remembers the grainy photo from the archives. The black car. The bandage. The boy who was left to carry the lessons of a ghost.
"Your mother," Milia repeats, her voice dropping to a low, husky whisper that she quickly tries to sharpen. She looks away from him, her gaze fixing on the glittering skyline outside, though the view suddenly feels cold and distant. "She was clearly a lot more sentimental than the rest of the Adelaides I've heard about."
"Yes. She was the kindest person in the world."
Milia sets her fork down slowly, the silver resting against the plate with a muted, final sound. She doesn't look at him immediately. Instead, she stares at the way the sunlight catches the condensation on her glass of green juice, her heart performing a strange, heavy thud against her ribs.
The comparison he made last night—calling 'her' the kindest person he'd met in a long time—suddenly feels like a lead weight. If his mother was his gold standard for goodness, and she died in that fire, Arlen isn't just being polite. He's looking for pieces of a lost world in the woman who has spent the last month trying to make him feel like he didn't exist.
"You have a very strange definition of kindness, Arlen," she says, her voice a low, melodic rasp that carries more weight than her usual sharp commands. She finally turns her head, her hazel eyes searching his face, lingering on the pale line of the scar she now knows the history of.
"You say that about her... the woman who stayed in a burning house," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And then you say it about me. The woman who made you drink until you were sick just to prove a point."
She scoffs, a bitter, jagged sound that lacks any real sting. She reaches out, her manicured fingers ghosting near the edge of his plate, though she doesn't touch him.
"But you are kind, Miss Milia. Kinder than anyone else I knew. If you weren't kind, I wouldn't be here sitting with you. Eating the meal you bought."
Milia's jaw tightens, her knuckles turning white against the cool marble of the counter. She stares at him, her eyes tracing the way he holds his fork with such careful, economic grace. The sincerity in his voice is like a slow-burning acid, eating away at the cold, polished armor she's spent years building. To her, his words aren't a compliment; they're an indictment of how much she's failed at being the villain he clearly doesn't see.
"You're a fool," she says, her voice a sharp, jagged whisper that lacks its usual commanding resonance. She looks away, focusing on the way the sunlight catches a stray dust mote in the air. "You're so used to being treated like a shadow that the first person who doesn't step on you looks like a saint to you. It's not kindness, Arlen. It's... it's common decency. The fact that you think it's rare says more about the Adelaides than it does about me."
She picks up her fork, but her appetite is gone, replaced by a strange, heavy pressure in her chest. The "Great Milia Madrigal" is used to being adored, worshipped, and envied, but being called 'kind' by a man who has every reason to hate her feels like a weight she isn't strong enough to carry.
"I didn't do it because I'm a good person," she snaps, though the sting is missing from her tone. "I did it because I was tired of the silence. And because I didn't want a dead cat on my conscience."
She leans in closer, her emerald silk robe whispering as she moves. Her hazel eyes search his—one normal, one clouded by a history she's finally started to understand.
"If you're so convinced of my 'goodness,' then prove you're worth the effort," she commands, her voice dropping to a low, melodic hiss. "Eat. Finish every single bite on that plate. I won't have my 'kindness' going to waste in the garbage disposal."
"I... I will."
She stands up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, a jarring sound in the quiet kitchen. She needs to move, to escape the terrifyingly warm way he's looking at her.
"And for heaven's sake, keep that... soldier of yours away from my ankles while I'm in the studio," she adds, gesturing toward Dex. "I have a reputation to maintain, and 'cat-lady' isn't on the list for this year's rebranding."
She starts to walk away, her heels clicking a rhythmic, defensive beat toward her sanctuary, but she pauses at the threshold. She looks back over her shoulder, her silhouette sharp and elegant against the afternoon light.
"And Arlen?"
He looks up from his meal, a small, genuine smile still touching his lips. "Yes, Milia?"
"Don't compare me to your mother again," she says, her voice a fragile thread of sound. "I'm not a saint. I'm just the woman who's stuck with you for the next four months. Try to remember that."
She doesn't wait for his response. She sweeps into her studio and slams the door, leaning her back against the cool wood. She realizes then that she isn't just protecting him anymore; she's protecting the only person who has looked at her and seen something worth loving, even when she was trying her best to be the villain.
Arlen was left alone with Dex at the dining table. He made sure to finish the meal Milia has graciously given him. After that, Arlen tidied up the table and kitchen. Making sure everything is clean and organized.
Milia is at her studio, occupying herself with vocal practice for her upcoming concert in Baguio in two week's time.
The soundproof walls of the studio are Milia's only true sanctuary, but today, even the high-density foam and the professional-grade acoustics can't dampen the intrusive thoughts of the man in the kitchen.
She stands before the condenser microphone, the glowing LED of the pre-amp casting a cold, red light over her face. She's rehearsing a power ballad for the Baguio concert—a song about a woman standing alone in the rain, reclaiming her pride. Usually, the high notes come with an effortless, soaring clarity, but today, there's a rasp in her chest that has nothing to do with her vocal cords.
"You really are kind, Miss Milia."
The line repeats in her head, more persistent than the metronome's click.
"Useless," she mutters, pulling the headphones off and letting them hang around her neck. She paces the small space, her emerald robe swishing against the cables on the floor.
She picks up her tablet, flicking through the setlist for Baguio. It's a major performance, a high-altitude show in the City of Pines that always draws a massive, adoring crowd. It's supposed to be her victory lap for the first month of the marriage trial being 'successfully' navigated. But the celebratory date with Liam is a smoking ruin, and the man she's supposed to be ignoring is currently scrubbing her marble counters with the same hand she'd held in the car last night.
She looks at the security monitor on the studio wall. It shows a silent, wide-angle view of the living room and kitchen.
She sees Arlen. He's moving with that economic, quiet grace, his slender frame bent over the counter as he polishes away every trace of their lunch. Dex is sitting on the rug nearby, looking like a tiny, orange gargoyle guarding his territory.
Watching him through the screen feels different than seeing him in person. On the monitor, he looks even more delicate, more like a porcelain figure that has been glued back together too many times. She notices the way he occasionally pauses to adjust the bangs over his left eye—a reflex of shame he still hasn't unlearned, despite her seeing everything.
"Why aren't you angry?" she whispers to the screen, her eyes narrowing. "I treated you like dirt, and you're still making sure my kitchen sparkles."
Her phone buzzes on the console. A text from Liam.
[15:42] Liam: I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Milia, but walking out on me for that charity case is a new low. We need to talk. My father is asking about the Adelaide merger progress.
Milia scoffs, her lip curling in a cold sneer. She types back with a sharp, clinical speed:
[15:44] Milia: The merger is fine. Arlen was having a medical emergency with his pet. If you can't handle five minutes of redirected attention, then maybe you aren't as 'ready' for our future as you think. Don't call me. I'm rehearsing for Baguio.
She silences the phone and throws it onto the leather sofa.
The Baguio concert is in two weeks. It will be cold up there, the air thin and smelling of pine. Usually, she'd take Liam. But the thought of him standing backstage, complaining about the 'ghost' at home, makes her stomach turn.
She looks back at the monitor. Arlen has finished cleaning. He's now sitting on the floor, gently brushing Dex's fur with a small comb. There's a quiet, serene peace on his face—the kind of peace that doesn't belong in a "Masterpiece" host club or a corporate marriage trial.
Milia reaches for the studio door, intending to go out and snap at him to stop acting like a servant, but her hand pauses on the cold metal handle. She realizes then that if she goes out there, she'll have to face that smile again. She'll have to be "kind."
She turns back to the microphone, her jaw set.
"Again," she tells the empty room. "From the bridge. And this time, make it sound like you actually have a heart, Milia."
As the music swells through her headphones, she begins to sing, her voice a powerful, haunting cry that vibrates through the studio doors and out into the penthouse, reaching the boy and his cat as they navigate the first afternoon of their new, fragile reality.
The music swells through her headphones, a sweeping orchestral arrangement that usually makes her feel invincible. She hits the crescendo, a soaring note that should feel like a triumph, but it lands with a strange, hollow thud in her own ears. She pulls the headphones off, the silence of the booth suddenly feeling claustrophobic.
She pushes open the heavy, soundproof door, stepping out into the hallway. The scent of lavender floor cleaner lingers in the air—Arlen's handiwork. She walks toward the kitchen, her throat dry from the rehearsal, and finds him sitting on the plush rug by the panoramic window.
He's not cleaning anymore. He's sitting with his legs tucked under him, the afternoon sun casting a halo around his silhouette. Dex is sprawled across his lap, and Arlen is quietly showing the cat the view of the city, his voice a low, melodic murmur that doesn't quite reach her.
Milia stops at the edge of the living room, leaning against the cold marble pillar. She watches the way his slender fingers gently stroke the cat's ears. There's no mask on his face now—no practiced host smile, no fearful servant's flinch. There is only a quiet, fragile contentment that makes her chest ache with a sudden, sharp jealousy. He has so little, yet he looks more at peace in her home than she ever has.
"I can hear you through the door, you know," she says, her voice a cool, resonant chime that breaks the silence.
Arlen jumps slightly, his head snapping toward her. Dex lets out an annoyed chirp at the sudden movement. "I.. I'm sorry, Miss Milia. Was I being too loud?"
"My singing," she says, walking toward the kitchen island to pour herself a glass of chilled water. She doesn't look at him, but she can feel his hazel eye following her. "You were listening. Don't bother denying it."
Arlen's face flushes a soft, translucent pink. He looks down at Dex, his fingers knotting in the cat's fur. "It... it was very beautiful. The high notes... they sounded like they were reaching for something. It made the room feel... lighter."
Milia pauses, the glass halfway to her lips. She's received thousands of reviews from critics, but hearing a "ghost" describe her voice as something that made a room feel lighter hits her with an unexpected, visceral force. She quickly takes a sip to hide the way her hand trembles.
"It's just a rehearsal," she says, her voice regaining its sharp, aristocratic edge. She turns to face him, leaning her elbows on the counter. "I have a concert in Baguio in two weeks. It's a major production that will span for three days. The cold air up there is brutal on the vocal cords, so I have to over-prepare."