The fluorescent lights of the clinic are unforgiving, humming with a clinical vibration that seems to rattle Arlen's already frayed nerves. Every few seconds, his breath catches in a sharp, hitching sob that he tries—and fails—to swallow. He is a mess of contradictions: the "most requested host" in the city, currently huddled in a worn, oversized sweater, smelling of hospital disinfectant and the faint, lingering musk of a club he hasn't truly slept off.
Milia sits two chairs away, the plastic seat feeling like a mockery of the Italian leather she's used to. She watches him through the periphery of her vision. His hands are locked so tight that his knuckles are stark, bloodless white. He looks like he's trying to hold his entire soul together with just his fingers.
"Stop that," she says, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through his frantic whispering. "You're vibrating. It's making me nauseous."
Arlen flinches, his head bowing lower. "I... I'm sorry, Miss Milia. I'll be quiet."
But the shivering doesn't stop. It's not a choice; it's a physical collapse. Milia looks at his feet—he's wearing mismatched socks, likely rushed into his shoes in the dark. The sight is so uncharacteristically unpolished for an Adelaide that it grates on her more than any insult could.
The heavy swing-door to the treatment area finally creaks open. A middle-aged veterinarian in green scrubs steps out, pulling down his mask. Before the man can even speak, Arlen is on his feet, though he has to grab the back of a chair to keep from swaying into the floor.
"Dex?" Arlen's voice is a ghost of a sound, raw and bleeding.
The vet offers a tired, yet reassuring smile. "He's stable. It was a severe acute infection—likely feline flu complicated by the stress of a new environment. His fever was dangerously high, which caused the lethargy and respiratory distress. We've started him on an IV for fluids and antibiotics. He's resting in an oxygen tent now."
The air leaves Arlen's lungs in a long, shaky exhale that sounds like a whistle. He doesn't say anything. He simply sinks back onto the plastic chair, his spine turning to liquid. His hands finally unclasp, falling limp into his lap.
"He... he's going to be okay?" Arlen asks, his hazel eye fixed on the vet with a desperate, child-like intensity.
"He needs to stay with us for forty-eight hours for observation," the vet says, his gaze shifting to Milia, recognizing the expensive trench coat and the unmistakable aura of 'old money.' "The treatment is expensive, and there's the overnight monitoring fee—"
"I have the money!" Arlen interrupts, his voice gaining a sudden, frantic volume. He reaches into the pocket of his sweater and pulls out the wad of bills he earned at the club—the ones Ren had handed him, still smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and the perfume of 'Queens.' He thrusts the crumpled cash toward the vet, his face flushed with a desperate pride. "I have it. All of it. Everything he needs, I will pay for it all."
Milia's eyes drop to the crumpled wad of cash in Arlen's hand. She recognizes those bills. She recognizes the specific way some of them are folded—the ones she had tossed onto the champagne-soaked table like a common insult. Seeing him offer that "blood money" now, with such trembling, earnest pride, sends a sharp, sickening jolt through her. It's the physical manifestation of every humiliation she's heaped upon him, now being used as a shield to protect the only thing he loves.
"Put that away," Milia commands, her voice cutting through Arlen's frantic offering like a razor through silk.
She steps forward, her movements a blur of sharp, designer lines. Before Arlen can protest, she slides a sleek, titanium black card across the reception desk, the *clack* against the laminate surface sounding like a definitive end to the discussion.
"Bill everything to this account," she says to the vet, not once looking at Arlen. "The overnight stay, the diagnostics, the best medication you have. If he needs a specialist, fly one in. Just ensure the cat survives the night."
"Miss Milia, no..." Arlen's voice is a broken whisper. He's still holding his cash out, his fingers twitching. "I can... I earned this. I worked for this. Please, I don't want to owe you anything else."
Milia turns on him, her eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire. She snatches the wad of bills from his hand, her grip so sudden and firm that he flinches.
"You think I want your 'host' tips touching the records of a reputable clinic?" she hisses, her voice low enough that the vet tech politely retreats a few steps. "This money smells like cheap gin and the desperation of every woman who touched you tonight. It's a pollutant, Arlen. Just like you."
She stuffs the crumpled bills into the pocket of her trench coat, right next to the signed waiver.
"You don't 'owe' me anything," she lies, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "I'm protecting my investment. If that cat dies, you'll be useless to me—a moping, pathetic mess that I'll have to listen to for the next four months. I'm paying for my own peace and quiet. Do you understand?"
Arlen looks at her, his hazel eye wide and shimmering with a mixture of profound relief and a new, crushing weight of debt. He looks like a man who has been pulled from a drowning sea only to realize he's been placed on a desert island. He slowly drops his hands to his sides, his shoulders slumping.
"Thank you," he murmurs, the words sounding like a confession of defeat. "Thank you, Miss Milia."
"Don't thank me," she snaps, turning back to the receptionist to finalize the paperwork with a flourish of her pen. "And don't look at me with that 'favors and pity' look. I haven't forgotten what you said at the club. I haven't forgotten that this is all an 'act'."
She grabs her card back and stalks toward the exit, her house slippers clicking hollowly on the tile. "Wait here until they move him to the observation ward. I'll be in the car. Five minutes, Arlen. If you're not out by then, you can walk back to the penthouse."
She doesn't wait for his response. She pushes through the glass doors and into the humid Manila night. The air feels heavy, pressing against her skin. She reaches into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the crumpled money he worked so hard to earn—the money he was willing to trade his pride for, just for a cat.
She leans against the side of her SUV, looking up at the smog-choked stars. The "Tragic Prince" wasn't a mask. The "invisible ghost" wasn't a game. As she feels the weight of his signed waiver and his hard-earned cash in her pockets, Milia Madrigal realizes with a chilling certainty that she isn't the Queen of this Selection anymore. She's just the only witness to a tragedy she's been actively helping to write.
A few minutes later, the clinic door opens. Arlen emerges, looking smaller than ever. He walks toward the car, his head bowed, his hands shoved deep into the sleeves of his oversized sweater. He looks like he's trying to disappear into the very pavement.
He climbs into the passenger seat, the silence between them thick and suffocating. As Milia pulls the car back into the street, she glances at him. He's staring out the window, a single, silent tear carving a path through the faint, lingering makeup on his cheek.
"He'll be okay, Arlen," she says, her voice unusually quiet, the jagged edges of her persona finally starting to fray.
"I know," he whispers, not looking at her. "Because you saved him."
He turns his head slightly, his hazel eye catching the glow of a passing neon sign. "You're a very good person, Miss Milia. Even when you're trying so hard not to be."
Milia grips the steering wheel until her hands ache, her jaw setting into a hard, defensive line. "Shut up, Arlen," she says, but there is no venom in the command. "Just... shut up and let me drive."
She accelerates into the dark, the lights of the city blurring into a kaleidoscope of gold and shadow, two strangers bound together by a cat, a contract, and a fire that had never really stopped burning.
The drive back is a suffocating tunnel of neon and shadow. Milia keeps her eyes fixed on the road, the hum of the luxury SUV's tires the only thing standing between them and a silence so heavy it feels physical. In the periphery of her vision, Arlen is a motionless statue of grief and exhaustion. He doesn't move, doesn't sniffle; he simply exists in the passenger seat as if he's already halfway to becoming the ghost he promised to be.
She feels the wad of crumpled bills in her trench coat pocket—his 'host' money. It feels hot against her hip, a physical reminder of the hours he spent under the predatory gazes of women like Vivienne just to ensure that the small, orange life back at the clinic could keep breathing. Every bill represents a moment of his dignity he traded away. A trade she had mocked, then profited from.
When they finally reach the basement garage, the engine dies with a finality that makes Arlen flinch. He doesn't move to get out immediately. He looks at his hands, pale and empty in his lap.
"The apartment... it will be very quiet tonight," he whispers to himself, the realization finally hitting him.
Milia's grip on the steering wheel doesn't loosen. "It's a month of silence you've been practicing for, Arlen. I'm sure you'll manage."
She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. They're a reflex, a defensive strike against the hollow look in his hazel eye. Arlen doesn't retort. He simply nods, a slow, jerky motion, and climbs out of the car.
They ride the elevator up in a vacuum of unspoken things. When the doors glide open to the penthouse, the space feels cavernous, the designer lighting casting long, lonely shadows across the marble. Arlen stumbles as he steps out, his legs finally giving way to the cocktail of champagne, adrenaline, and grief. He catches himself against the foyer wall, his head hanging low.
"Go to bed," Milia says, her voice echoing too loudly in the foyer. "I'll call the clinic at dawn. If there's any change, the staff has my personal number."
Arlen turns to her, his face a map of ruin. He looks at her for a long beat, his hazel eye searching hers, before he offers one last, shallow bow.
"Goodnight, Miss Milia. And... thank you. Truly."
He disappears into the guest wing, the click of his door sounding like a final curtain call.
Milia stands in the center of her magnificent living room, alone. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the wad of bills, spreading them out on the marble kitchen island. They are wrinkled, some stained with the faint residue of the club's atmosphere. Beside them, she lays the signed waiver—the document that legally guarantees her freedom.
She stares at the money. It's a pathetic amount compared to the millions her family handles daily, but she knows it's a fortune to a man who was counting coins for cat food a month ago.
She thinks of him in the 'Queen's Selection,' the navy silk, the lace, the way he let her humiliate him for a 'tip.' She thinks of him kneeling on the floor of the clinic, begging to pay for a life he valued more than his own pride.
The cynical narrative she's built for a month—that he's a calculating manipulator, a liar, an Adelaide shark in sheep's clothing—begins to crumble, leaving behind an uncomfortable, jagged truth. He wasn't trying to win her favor. He was trying to buy his way out of her world because she was the one who made him feel like a ghost.
With a sharp, agitated sound, Milia sweeps the money and the waiver into a drawer, slamming it shut. She marches to her master suite, her heels silent on the plush carpet. She strips off her trench coat and silk robe, throwing them aside, and collapses onto her bed.
The silence of the penthouse is absolute. No meows, no rustle of a cat on a rug. Just the distant, indifferent thrum of the city.
"I don't care," she whispers into her silk pillow, her eyes wide and burning in the dark. "He's a nuisance. He's a host. He's a liar."
But as sleep finally begins to pull at her, she doesn't see her boyfriend Liam or the adoring crowds of her concerts. She sees Arlen's hand reaching for hers in the car, and she hears the way he said her name—without the title, without the mask—as if she was the only person left in his burning world who could help him put out the fire.
Tomorrow, the trial would continue in its second month.