She watches through the sliver of the door as he clings to the cat, his shoulders shaking, his forehead pressed against Dex's orange fur. It occurs to her then that Arlen isn't just "meek." He is a person who has spent fifteen years expecting the world to take everything he loves, and he has finally run out of things to lose.
The guilt, a cold and heavy stone in her stomach, finally prompts her to move. She doesn't want to be a voyeur to his grief anymore.
She reaches out and pushes the door open further, the hinges letting out a soft, intentional creak to announce her presence. Arlen jumps, nearly dropping the phone, and frantically wipes his eyes with his sleeve, his back turning to her as he tries to reconstruct the "obedient ghost" mask in record time.
"I... I'm sorry, Miss Milia! I didn't realize the door was—"
"If you squeeze that animal any tighter, he's going to need a second trip to the clinic for broken ribs," Milia interrupts, her voice carrying its usual aristocratic edge, though it lacks its previous venom. She walks into the room, her emerald silk robe trailing behind her like a regal shadow.
She stops at the foot of the bed, her eyes landing on the phone sitting on the duvet—the screen still glowing with the selfie of the boy and his cat.
"And it's not 'my' phone," she says, her gaze flickering to his flushed, tear-stained face. She reaches out and nudges the device toward him with a manicured finger. "It's yours. I don't take back gifts, Arlen. It's tacky."
She looks at Dex, who is watching her with wide, unblinking golden eyes. The cat seems perfectly at home on the designer silk, and for the first time, Milia doesn't feel the urge to check for shedding fur.
"As for 'repaying' me," she continues, crossing her arms over her chest, "you can start by not acting like a prisoner in my guest wing. If I wanted to live with a weeping willow, I would have moved into a botanical garden."
She walks over to the window, pulling the heavy curtains back to let more light into the room, her movements sharp and decisive.
"The 48-hour observation is over tomorrow. I've already arranged for a high-end pet brand to deliver a proper bed and climbing tree. I won't have my guest room looking like a storage unit." She turns to look at him, her hazel eyes searching his, lingering on the scar he's no longer frantically trying to hide. "And Arlen?"
Arlen looks up, clutching Dex like a lifeline. "Y..yes?"
"Stop talking about 'disappearing,'" she says, her voice dropping to a low, intense vibration. "The only person leaving this penthouse is me, when I have rehearsals. You are staying here. And you are going to help me deal with the twenty-eight angry messages I currently have from Liam. Consider it your new 'job' since I've banned you from the club."
She walks toward the door, but pauses, looking back over her shoulder. The sunlight catches the gold embroidery of her robe.
"And for heaven's sake, take more pictures. That cat has more personality in his left ear than most of the hosts I saw last night."
Arlen looks back at Dex again, guiding its head so that he can have a clearer look. "I... I guess he does have a bit of an attitude."
"A 'bit'?" Milia scoffs, a sharp, genuine sound that lacks any real venom. She leans against the doorframe, her eyes traveling from the cat's arrogant, white-furred belly to Arlen's pale, flushed face. "The creature acts like he has a seat on the board of directors. It's almost impressive, really. He has more backbone in his tail than you have in your entire body."
She lets out a small, tired sigh, the adrenaline from the night and the morning finally beginning to fade into a dull, heavy ache in her temples. The twenty-eight messages from Liam are still waiting on her own phone, likely full of accusations and demands for an explanation she doesn't feel like giving.
"I'm going to my studio," she says, her voice regained its melodic, commanding tone. "I have a call with my agent to fix the... situation I caused by walking out on dinner. Don't think for a second that this means you can slack off on your 'resident' duties. If that phone doesn't have at least ten more photos of that orange beast by tonight, I'll consider it a waste of high-end hardware."
She starts to turn, but pauses, her gaze lingering on him one last time. In the bright afternoon sun, Arlen doesn't look like a host or a ghost. He looks like a person—scarred, weary, and fragile, but unmistakably there.
"And Arlen?"
He looks up, clutching Dex. "Yes, Milia?"
"Keep the door open. It gets stuffy in this wing," she commands, her voice a low, raspy thread. It's a transparent excuse to keep him within earshot, but she's the Great Milia Madrigal; she doesn't need to be subtle.
"If I keep the door ajar, Dex might go out to the living room."
Milia pauses, her hand on the doorframe, her back still turned to him. She lets out a short, sharp huff of air—not quite a laugh, but the closest thing to it she's allowed herself all day.
"Then let him," she says, a dismissive flick of her wrist punctuating the command. She doesn't look back, her gaze fixed on the long, sun-drenched hallway leading to her sanctuary. "He's survived a medical crisis; the least he can do is enjoy the five-thousand-square-foot territory he's annexed. If he wants to explore the living room, let him explore. It's a penthouse, Arlen, not a high-security prison."
She takes a step into the hallway, then stops, her voice regaining its low, raspy velvet tone.
"Besides, I've already thrown Liam's roses in the trash. The 'perfection' of this place was compromised the moment I decided to drive you to a vet in my house slippers. A few orange hairs on the sofa aren't going to make a difference now."
Arlen looks at Milia with profound surprise. This was a complete undoing of the rule she had set when he first came to this penthouse. "I... I understand."
She begins to walk away, her silk robe whispering against the marble, but her parting words drift back to him like a royal decree.
"Just make sure he stays off my grand piano. If I catch him using my keys as a scratching post, I'll have to dock it from your... 'non-existent' salary. And Arlen?"
She doesn't wait for his response.
"Lunch is at one. I've ordered enough for two. Don't make me come in there and drag you to the table."
With that, she sweeps out of sight, the *click-clack* of her heels echoing through the penthouse. For the first time, the sound doesn't signal a threat or a lecture—it simply signals that for the next four months, the ghost is officially retired, and the "great Milia Madrigal" is, however reluctantly, making room for a boy and his cat.
At exactly 1 PM, Arlen emerged from the guest room. Dex followed suit like a chonky little soldier. The both of them walked to the kitchen where Milia is already waiting.
Milia is seated at the marble island, her eyes fixed on her phone—scrolling through a news feed to ignore the lingering notification of another text from Liam. When she hears the rhythmic *pat-pat-pat* of paws followed by the soft, hesitant footsteps of Arlen, she doesn't look up immediately. She waits until they are both well into the kitchen's light, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk she quickly suppresses.
"Exactly on time," she notes, finally sliding her phone onto the counter and looking at them.
Her gaze lands on Dex first. The cat is trotting with a hilarious amount of confidence, his tail held high like a flagpole. He looks like he's lived in this penthouse for years and is merely allowing her to stay in it.
"I see the general has decided to inspect the mess hall," Milia says, her voice a smooth, aristocratic chime. She gestures toward the far end of the island, where she has already set out two plates of steamed sea bass and quinoa—clean, high-protein food designed to restore someone who has spent too many nights living on adrenaline and host-club gin.
"Sit, Arlen. I'm not going to tell you a second time," she commands, though she pushes the glass of fresh-pressed green juice toward his place setting with a surprisingly gentle motion.
She watches him pull out the barstool, noting the way his hands are still a bit shaky, but his posture is less hunched than it was that morning. The navy sweater he's wearing makes his hazel eye look deeper, and the afternoon sun hitting his face highlights the delicate, sharp beauty she used to find "manipulative" but now finds... frustratingly human
"May I really eat this, Miss Milia?" Arlen asks, looking at the food laid out in front of him which he can only imagine the cost.
Milia lets out a sharp, weary sigh, the sound echoing against the high-end appliances. She leans her chin in her hand, her eyes raking over him with a look of exasperated disbelief.
"I am the highest-paid artist in this country, Arlen," she says, her voice a low, melodic vibration. "The cost of a piece of fish is less than what I spend on hairspray in a week. Do not insult my financial standing by acting like you're eating gold bullion. It's lunch. Not a sacrificial offering."
She reaches out, her manicured fingers tapping impatiently against the marble counter near his plate.
"And I've already told you: you are a resident. Residents do not ask for permission to consume nutrients," she commands, her hazel eyes locking onto his. "If you don't eat it, I'll be forced to throw it away, and I find nothing more tacky than a celebrity wasting gourmet protein. So, unless you want me to feel like a wasteful socialite, you will pick up your fork."
She looks down at Dex, who has parked himself near Arlen's feet, his golden eyes watching the steam from the sea bass with intense, soldierly focus.
"And look at your 'soldier' there," Milia adds, a faint, rare ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she suppresses it. "He clearly doesn't share your hesitations. If you don't start eating, I suspect he'll stage a coup and take your portion for himself."
She picks up her own fork, moving with a practiced, elegant grace, and takes a small bite of the quinoa. She doesn't look at him, but her posture is focused entirely on his presence.
"Eat, Arlen. That's a directive from your 'temporary fiancé.'"
She says it with her usual sharpness, but the ice in her tone has been replaced by a strange, new heat—a fierce, protective need to see him stop being a shadow and start being a person.
Arlen hesitantly picked up a fork and clasps his hands together like a prayer. "Th.. thank you for this meal."
Milia watches him, her head tilted to the side as she studies the way his fingers interlace. The sight of him—scarred, weary, and bowing his head to give thanks for a piece of fish—is so jarringly domestic that it makes her chest feel tight with a sudden, unidentifiable pressure. In her world, meals are business transactions or social displays, but Arlen treats this simple lunch like a sacred rite.
"Stop thanking the universe for a piece of sea bass," she says, her voice a silken rasp that lacks any real venom. "If there's a God, I'm sure He's more concerned with my upcoming tour than whether or not you're eating Quinoa. Just eat it before I lose my own appetite watching you be a saint."
She picks at her own plate, her movements precise and elegant, a stark contrast to Arlen's humble, shaky grace. The kitchen, once a cold gallery of her success, now feels smaller, occupied by the soft *purr* of the cat at Arlen's feet and the weight of the secrets they've stopped hiding from each other.