Even when the alcohol is consuming his reason, it still can't strip away Arlen's submissive personality that Milia deems as manipulative.
"You look very beautiful tonight ma'am. Thank you for granting me the luxury of enjoying such expensive champagne with you." Arlen replies in between soft hiccups.
Milia wants to hear a confession, a slip of tongue that this whole charade is all theatrics and an act that Arlen planned to make her look like a villain. To soften her up and make her eventually fall for him.
Milia's hand doesn't just trace his jaw anymore; her fingers tighten into a grip that is less of a caress and more of a cage. She stares at him, her chest rising and falling with a sharp, agitated breath. The "compliment" feels like a slap. To her, it's not genuine—it's the most calculated weapon in a host's arsenal.
"Beautiful?" she repeats, the word dripping with vitriol. "Don't you dare use your rehearsed, professional flattery on me. I've had millions of people scream that word at me from concert stages. I don't need it from a drunk in a lace collar."
She jerks him forward by the lace jabot, the silk straining against his throat, pulling his face so close to hers that she can see the minute tremors in his pupils. The scent of champagne on his breath is sweet and heavy.
"Stop it, Arlen. Just stop," she hisses, her voice vibrating with a visceral, desperate need to shatter the illusion. "The 'thank yous,' the 'ma'ams,' the pathetic gratitude for being humiliated... it's the most disgusting part of your performance. You think if you play the saint long enough, I'll start to feel like the monster, don't you? You think if you stay this 'perfect,' I'll eventually feel guilty. That I'll soften. That I'll actually look at you and see someone worth loving."
She searches his hollow, swirling eyes for even a spark of the resentment she knows must be there.
"Confess," she demands, her voice dropping to a low, jagged whisper. "Tell me you hate me. Tell me you're doing this to make me look like a villain in front of your 'Queens.' Admit that this whole 'meek grandson' act is just a long-con to get into my head. Tell me you're a liar, Arlen! I'd respect a liar a thousand times more than I respect whatever this is."
She shakes him slightly, her gaze predatory. She's waiting for the slip of the tongue, the one honest, ugly word that will finally prove her right—that he's just as manipulative and calculating as the world she was born into.
"Why are you still smiling?" she asks, her voice cracking with a sudden, sharp frustration. "Your vision is failing, you can barely breathe, and I'm tearing your dignity to shreds in a public lounge. Give me the truth. Tell me what you really want from me."
Even when his world is currently spinning, Arlen still manages to form a short, alcohol laced reply. "Yes... you're right ma'am. It's all a staged act to gain your favor and pity."
Milia freezes. The words she has been hunting for, the confession she has been trying to beat out of him with coldness and champagne, are finally hanging in the air. For a heartbeat, there is a vacuum of silence at the table, a stark contrast to the lively jazz and the murmur of socialites around them.
She lets go of his lace jabot. Her hand pulls back as if she's touched something that finally revealed its venom. A sharp, triumphant, and yet utterly bitter smile carves its way across her face.
"Finally," she breathes, the word vibrating with a chilling, satisfied malice. "The ghost finally reveals his rattling chains."
She leans back, her eyes raking over his flushed, swaying form with a look of profound, victorious disgust. She doesn't see the alcohol-induced haze in his eyes as a sign of weakness; she sees it as the lubricant that finally let his 'true' self slip through.
"So, the little martyr admits it. It was all a script. The stuttering, the 'invisible' routine, the pathetic little cat... all of it was just set dressing for your grand debut as the victim." She lets out a short, jagged laugh, her voice low so as not to alert the other patrons, but intense enough to pierce through Arlen's clouded mind. "You wanted me to feel like the villain. You wanted my pity so you could turn it into leverage. How... 'Adelaide' of you."
She picks up her glass, swirling the last drop of gin before setting it down with a definitive *clink*.
"How does it feel, Arlen? To finally stop pretending? To admit that you're just as calculating and opportunistic as the 'aristocrats' you pretend to be better than?" She leans in again, her gaze predatory. "Does it make you feel more like a man? Or do you feel even more like a product now that I know exactly what you were trying to sell me?"
She signals Ren with a sharp, imperious flick of her wrist.
"Ren! I'm finished with my host," she calls out, her voice regaining its melodic, public-facing tone, though the frost remains underneath. "He's been very... *illuminating*. But I find his performance has become a bit redundant now that I know the ending."
She turns back to Arlen, her eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire.
"Since you're so fond of 'favors' and 'pity,' here's a tip." She reaches into her designer bag, pulls out a thick wad of bills, and tosses them carelessly onto the table so they fan out over the champagne spill. "Use that to buy your silence for the rest of the night. And tomorrow, when you're sober and back in my penthouse, don't you dare try to put that mask back on. I know exactly who you are now, Arlen. And I find the reality much easier to despise than the ghost."
She stands up, adjusting her red power suit with a sharp, decisive movement.
"Goodnight, 'Host Arlen.' Try not to choke on your own ambition."
With a final, withering glare at his slumped, flushed figure, Milia turns on her heel and sweeps out of the club, her red suit a defiant, bloody streak against the golden shadows of the Queen's Selection. She leaves him there—flushed, swaying, and surrounded by the money she used to strip him of the last thing he had: his mystery.
Upon finishing his shift for the evening, Arlen groggily went to the washroom to wash up before reverting back to his usual clothes.
The cold water from the tap feels like needles against Arlen's overheated skin. He splashes his face repeatedly, trying to drown out the rhythmic thrumming in his ears and the way the tiled walls seem to breathe and sway around him. The reflection in the mirror is a blur of navy silk and smeared perfection—the "Masterpiece" was melting.
His fingers fumble blindly with the lace jabot, the intricate knots feeling like a puzzle his drunken brain can't solve. He lets out a soft, frustrated sound, a tiny whimper that gets lost in the hum of the bathroom's ventilation. When he finally manages to strip off the suit, he feels a wave of nausea. He sways, grabbing the edge of the marble vanity to keep from collapsing.
The money Milia threw at him is still crumpled in his hand—the "tip" for his confession. It feels heavy, a physical weight of the lie he had just told to satisfy her. He didn't have the strength to fight her narrative anymore. If she wanted him to be a villain, he would be a villain. If it meant she would finally stop looking at him with that terrifying intensity, he would admit to anything.
"Leaving so soon?" Ren's voice echoes as the bathroom door swings open. The manager looks down at the wad of bills Arlen is clutching. "She certainly has a flair for the dramatic. You did well, Arlen. Most hosts take months to provoke that kind of... passion... from a client."
"I... I need to go home, Ren," Arlen whispers, his voice thick and slurred. He pulls his oversized, worn sweater over his head, the familiar fabric a small comfort against his shivering skin.
"Take a cab," Ren says, slipping a few of the larger bills from the table into Arlen's pocket, keeping the rest as the house cut. "You're a mess. But a very profitable one. Get some sleep, Tragic Prince. You're requested again tomorrow."
***
The cab ride back to the penthouse is a kaleidoscope of neon lights and screeching brakes. Arlen keeps his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed, praying for the world to stop spinning. By the time he reaches the lobby of the building, the alcohol has settled into a dull, throbbing ache behind his hazel eye.
He enters the penthouse through the back entrance, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The air is still thick with the scent of Milia's perfume, a haunting reminder of the confrontation at the club. He expects her to be waiting, poised to deliver another blow now that she 'knows' his secret, but the living room is shrouded in a heavy, oppressive silence.
He stumbles toward the guest wing, his legs feeling like lead. Just as he reaches his door, a soft meow greets him. Dex is waiting, his tail flicking with concern.
"I'm okay, Dex..." Arlen murmurs, though he nearly trips over his own feet as he enters the room.
He doesn't turn on the lights. He doesn't want to see the "confessed" liar in the mirror. He simply collapses onto the bed, still in his street clothes, the room spinning as he closes his eyes. He had the money now. He could feed his cat. He could survive the trial.
But as he drifts into a restless, alcohol-soaked sleep, the last thing he remembers isn't the victory of his employment. It's the way Milia looked at him right before she left—that mixture of triumph and absolute, icy hatred. He had given her exactly what she wanted, and yet, it felt like he had lost everything.
Across the penthouse, in her master suite, Milia lies awake. She had won. She had unmasked him. But why did the silence of the apartment feel so much louder than before? Why did her "victory" feel like a bitter, sour taste that no amount of expensive gin could wash away?
She stares at the ceiling, her jaw clenched. She had broken the ghost. Now, she just had to live with what was left.
Driven by curiosity and a sleepless mind, Milia scrambled to reach for her phone. Her fingers tapping the search bar: 'Adelaide Family'
Just as expected, the articles that popped up all converges to the Adelaide's vast wealth and business ventures. Julius Adelaide's image was all over the articles.
Milia's thumb swipes aggressively against the screen, the blue light of the smartphone illuminating the sharp, focused lines of her face in the dark bedroom. The search results are a relentless parade of opulence: [Julius Adelaide acquires tech giant... The Adelaide Estate: A Gilded Fortress... Julius Adelaide, the Lion of Manila.]
"Look at all this," she mutters, her voice a jagged whisper. "The yachts, the charities, the skyscrapers. And he expects me to believe he's working for tips to buy cat food? He's even worse than I thought."
Her eyes narrow as she digs deeper, searching for a specific name: [Arlen Adelaide.]
But as she scrolls through page after page of social registries and family trees, she finds a jarring, cold void. There are countless photos of Julius, and even mentions of distant cousins and business associates, but Arlen is... absent. He isn't in the gala photos. He isn't listed in the family's philanthropic board. It's as if the "Ghost" routine he played in her house was a lifestyle he'd practiced his entire life within his own family.
Finally, she finds a grainy, archived article from 15 years ago: ['Tragedy at the Adelaide Summer House.']
The article describes a devastating blaze that claimed the life of Julius's only daughter and child. There's a single photo of a boy, not older than ten being led into a black car, his head bowed, his face partially obscured by a bandage over his left eye.
The headline is a jagged scar across the digital page. Milia's thumb trembles slightly as she scrolls. The article is sparse on details, shielded by the immense power of the Adelaide legal team, but the core of the story is undeniable: a fire, an electrical fault in a locked wing, and the death of the tycoon's only daughter—Arlen's mother.
The grainy photo of the young boy haunted her. Even then, his posture was the same—shoulders hunched, head bowed as if apologizing for the space he occupied. The bandage over his left eye explained the clouded iris she had stared into with such contempt. The burn mark he hid under his bangs wasn't just a flaw; it was a brand of survival.
"A fire," she whispers, her voice sounding hollow in the cold air of her bedroom.
She searches for his name again, desperate to find the 'tycoon' lifestyle she had accused him of hiding. But the more she digs, the more the void grows. There is no record of Arlen Adelaide ever attending prestigious universities. No trust funds listed in his name in the public registries. No social media. No scandals. While Julius Adelaide's wealth grew, his grandson seemingly ceased to exist in the eyes of the world fifteen years ago.
The pieces start to click together, but not in the way Milia wants. If he was the heir to a tragedy, why was he here? Why was Julius Adelaide—a man who could buy and sell the Philippines ten times over—forcing his only grandson into a secretive arranged marriage trial in her penthouse? And why was Arlen so desperately, violently poor that he was selling his pride at a host club just to buy a bag of cat food?
"It's a setup," Milia mutters, her cynicism flaring back up like a dying ember. She throws her phone onto the silk sheets, the screen still glowing with the image of the young, bandaged Arlen. "It has to be. He's the 'damaged' heir. They're using his trauma to make him look like a project I need to fix. My grandfather is a sentimental old man; he'd fall for a story like this. Julius is probably using Arlen's 'fragility' to guilt us into the merger."
She stands up, pacing the length of the room. Her red power suit from earlier is draped over a chair, a reminder of her 'victory' at the club.
'Yes... you're right ma'am. It's all a staged act to gain your favor and pity.'
His drunken confession echoes in her ears. He had admitted it. He had looked her in the eye and told her she was right. So why did these articles make his confession feel like another lie?
She walks to her bedroom door and opens it, looking out into the dark hallway. The penthouse is silent, save for the faint, rhythmic hum of the air conditioning. Far down the hall, behind the closed door of the guest wing, the 'Masterpiece' of the Queen's Selection was sleeping off a glass of expensive champagne she had forced down his throat.
Milia's jaw tightens. She wasn't satisfied. The more she learned, the less she felt she knew. She had wanted to find a villain, a calculating social climber she could crush under her heel. Instead, she had found a ghost that refused to stay buried.
"You're still lying to me, Arlen," she whispers toward the darkness. "Even when you're telling me what I want to hear, you're lying."
"I don't care," she tells herself, her eyes hardening as she pulls the silk duvet up to her chin. "I don't care about his past. I don't care about his mother. He's a contractual obligation, and he admitted he's manipulating me."
She closes her eyes, but all she can see is a pale tongue licking spilled wine off a dark wood table, and the look of a boy who had been taught, a long time ago, that he was nothing more than a ghost in his own life.