One month.
That was the length of time Milia had successfully avoided a direct conversation with the man living in her guest wing. The penthouse had settled into a rhythmic, funereal quiet. Every morning, she found the living room pristine, the plants watered, and the air smelling faintly of nothing—as if Arlen had managed to scrub even the scent of his own breath from her space.
But the silence wasn't the victory she had envisioned. Instead of feeling like the undisputed queen of her sanctuary, Milia felt like a spectator to a slow-motion vanishing act.
She had been keeping tabs on him. It started as "security monitoring," but it had morphed into a restless obsession. She knew he left at 6:00 PM and returned at 2:00 AM. She knew he took the back stairs. She even knew, through a discreet inquiry with Ren (framed as a 'concerned patron'), that Arlen—now known as the "Tragic Prince"—was the most requested new host at Queen's Selection.
Tonight, she sits at her marble kitchen island, a single lamp illuminating the space, turning the rest of the penthouse into a cavern of shadows. She's staring at a glass of water, listening for the faint *click* of the back entrance.
When it finally happens, the sound is so soft it's almost feline. Arlen enters, his silhouette thin and slightly slumped. He doesn't smell like the club tonight. He smells like industrial-grade soap and the cold night air—a scent so sterilized it's almost more offensive than the perfume had been. It's the scent of someone trying desperately to be erased.
"You're late," Milia says, her voice cutting through the dark. She doesn't turn around.
Arlen flinches, his luggage bag rustling. "I'm sorry, Miss Milia. There was... a particularly long-winded client tonight. I ensured I showered before entering the building."
Milia finally turns her chair, her eyes sharp and cold, tracking the way his sweater hangs loosely on his frame. He's lost weight. The 'fragile' look Ren loved was becoming a literal reality.
"I didn't ask for a report on your hygiene," she says, her gaze lingering on his face. The makeup from the club has been washed away, leaving him pale, his hazel eye rimmed with a weary, bloodshot red. "I asked why you're still doing this. You've been at it for a month. Surely you've made enough to satisfy your 'needs' and pay off whatever guilt-trip you're currently riding."
"Please don't waste your concern yourself with someone like me, Miss Milia. I'm simply doing this because I have my own reasons." Arlen replies politely.
Milia's lip curls into a cold, jagged sneer. She stands up from the barstool, her silk robe whispering against her legs as she closes the distance between them. She stops just inches away, her shadow looming over his slight, weary frame.
"Your 'reasons'?" she echoes, her voice dripping with a poisonous mixture of amusement and irritation. "How very cryptic. Is one of those reasons that you've become the darling of the lonely and the desperate? The 'Tragic Prince' of the Queen's Selection?"
She watches for the flinch, for the way his eyes might widen at the mention of his stage name. She wants him to know that even when he's in the shadows of the city, she is watching.
"Don't play the man of mystery with me, Arlen. It's a month late for that," she says, her gaze tracing the sharp line of his collarbone visible under his oversized sweater. "You're killing yourself for a handful of tips and the adulation of women who wouldn't look at you if you weren't wearing lace. Why? Is this part of the 'staged act' you confessed to? Are you trying to see how far you can push your body before I finally feel enough pity to hand you a piece of my affection?"
She reaches out, her cold fingers hooking into the hem of his sleeve, pulling his arm up to inspect the faint redness on his wrist—chafing from the cufflinks of his host suit.
"You're an Adelaide," she hisses, her voice dropping to a low, melodic vibration of fury. "Even if you're the one they chose to bury in a penthouse, you carry a name that's written on the skyline of this city. And yet, you'd rather spend your nights pouring gin and letting strangers touch your hair than ask your grandfather for a single cent. It's not 'independence,' Arlen. It's a perverse kind of pride that looks a lot like a death wish."
She releases his sleeve with a sharp, dismissive flick, her eyes burning into his hazel one.
"Or perhaps I should be impressed? You've managed to be the most requested host in the district while still managing to be a perfect, invisible servant in my home. It must be exhausting, maintaining two different masks at once."
She tilts her head, her gaze softening into something even more dangerous—genuine curiosity.
"Tell me... which one of you is the real one? The boy who licks wine off tables, or the one who waters my ferns in the dark? Or are you just a void that takes whatever shape the woman standing in front of you demands?"
"I can be whatever suits your narrative."
Arlen then points his pointer finger up, gesturing Milia to stay and wait for a short while
"I... I have something to help ease your mind about this whole trial Miss Milia. Please wait a moment." said Arlen, as he scurried back to his room to get something.
Milia remains by the kitchen island, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching the space where he just was. The hum of the refrigerator feels unnaturally loud in the vacuum of his absence. She finds herself tapping a manicured nail against her elbow, a rhythmic, impatient sound.
Something to ease my mind? she muses, her eyes narrowed. What could a ghost possibly have that would satisfy me? A confession? A bribe? Or some pathetic heirloom to beg for my affection?
A few minutes later, the soft shuffle of his footsteps returns. Arlen reappears, still looking weary, but he is holding a crisp, white envelope. He doesn't approach her too closely, maintaining the respectful distance of a servant, but he extends the envelope toward her with a slight bow of his head.
"I have been drafting this since the first week," Arlen whispers, his voice steady despite his obvious exhaustion. "I know how much you value your freedom, Miss Milia. And I know how much you despise this... arrangement."
Milia takes the envelope with a suspicious flick of her wrist. She tears it open, her eyes scanning the document inside. It's a formal, handwritten declaration, drafted in surprisingly elegant, precise script.
It is a **Waiver of Romantic Intent and Progress**.
In the letter, Arlen has already signed and dated a statement—predated for the final day of the five-month trial. It states, in no uncertain terms, that Arlen Adelaide has failed to form any romantic connection with Milia Madrigal, that he finds the cohabitation to be a failure of compatibility, and that he fully supports the immediate dissolution of the marriage pact with no fault assigned to Milia.
Milia's eyes widen as she reads the words. It is her golden ticket. It is exactly what she needs to show her grandfather to ensure she is never tethered to him again.
"What is this?" she asks, her voice unusually quiet, her gaze flickering from the paper to his pale face.
"It's my promise to you," Arlen says, a faint, genuine smile—not the practiced host smile, but something smaller and sadder—touching his lips. "I am working at the club not just for Dex, but to save enough money so that on the day this trial ends, I can disappear. I will move to a small apartment, far from the Adelaide estate and far from your life. You won't have to worry about me 'manipulating' you into a marriage. I am making sure that when the five months are over, there is nothing left for you to fix, and no reason for us to ever see each other again."
He takes a small step back, his shoulders slumping as if a great weight has been lifted, even as he looks like he might collapse from fatigue.
"The money I earn as a host... it is my escape fund, Miss Milia. Not just for me, but for your career. If I have my own resources, I won't need to rely on the Adelaide family, and they won't be able to use me as a pawn to stay close to you."
He bows one last time, deeper than usual.
"I am not trying to be your husband, and I am not trying to be a tycoon. I am just trying to earn enough to buy my own invisibility. I hope this... eases your mind. You are free, Miss Milia. You just have to wait for the clock to run out."
Milia stands there, the document crinkling in her grip. She had spent a month trying to unmask him as a villain, a liar, a social climber. She had humiliated him, forced him to drink, and invaded his workplace. And all the while, the "ghost" was working himself to the bone to provide her with the very thing she wanted most: an exit.
For the first time in her life, Milia Madrigal—the woman who always had a witty retort, a sharp insult, or a commanding presence—finds herself utterly speechless. She looks at the paper, then at the frail man standing before her, and feels a strange, cold hollow opening up in her chest.
"You're... you're rejecting me?" she asks, the words coming out more like a bruised question than an accusation.
Arlen looks up, his hazel eye blinking slowly. "Miss Milia you jest. H... How could I ever dream of rejecting someone like you. I'm simply trying to help you remove myself from your already perfect life."
He looks at the floor beneath his feet. "It's a life someone like me doesn't belong in."
Milia's fingers tighten on the waiver, the high-quality paper groaning and crinkling under her grip. Her knuckles are stark white. She should be elated. She should be calling her manager, her lawyer, her boyfriend. She should be celebrating that the "ghost" has finally agreed to haunt someone else's life.
But "someone like me" echoes in her head, sounding less like an apology and more like a sentence.
She looks at him—really looks at him. His eyes are shadowed with a fatigue that no amount of sleep will fix, and his frame seems to have thinned to the point of transparency. He's been spending his nights in a den of vice, letting women breathe down his neck and touch his skin, all so he can afford to buy a life where he never has to see her again.
The "perfect life" he mentioned feels, in this moment, like a hollow, gilded cage.
"Don't do that," she says, her voice coming out as a low, dangerous rasp. She takes a step forward, the waiver fluttering in her hand. "Don't stand there and tell me you're 'helping' me by turning yourself into a commodity. You're an Adelaide, Arlen! You were born with a silver spoon, and you're trading it for... for what? A studio apartment in the slums? A life of anonymity?"
She shakes the paper at him, her hazel eyes flashing with a confused, burning intensity.
"You're making me look like the villain again," she accuses, though the fire in her voice lacks its usual sharp edge. "If you disappear into the shadows with nothing but the tips you earned as a 'host,' how do you think that looks for me? People will say I bled you dry. They'll say I drove a man of your lineage to the streets."
She scoffs, a bitter, jagged sound, but she doesn't move away. Her gaze fixes on his hazel eye, the one that's currently drowning in exhaustion.
"You think this is 'easing my mind'?" she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. "To know that every time you were pouring champagne for Madam Vivienne, you were counting the cents until you could be rid of me? That you'd rather debase yourself in a club than spend one more minute as my fiancé?"
Her pride, her massive, untouchable pride, is bleeding. She had wanted to be the one to cast him out. She wanted to be the one to win. But Arlen has just handed her the trophy and told her he doesn't want it. He's already left; he's just waiting for the calendar to catch up.
"Keep your waiver," she says, her voice regaining a chilling, aristocratic sharpness. She doesn't hand it back; instead, she tosses it onto the marble counter behind her with a dismissive flick. "I'll hold onto it. As a guarantee that you won't change your mind when you realize how cold the world is without a Madrigal to look after you."
She steps even closer, so close that she can feel the heat of his exhaustion. She reaches out, her fingers hovering near his face before she abruptly drops her hand, clenching it into a fist at her side.
"Go to bed, Arlen," she commands, her voice thick with an emotion she refuses to name. "You look like you're about to drop dead, and I won't have a corpse in my guest wing. It would be a nightmare for the cleaning staff."
She turns her back to him, her silk robe swirling around her ankles, but she doesn't walk away. She stands there, staring at the waiver on the counter, her heart hammering a strange, hollow rhythm.
"And Arlen?" she adds, her voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside. "Don't think for a second that this makes us even. You've just found a new way to be a nuisance. A selfless, pathetic nuisance."
She waits until she hears the soft, dragging sound of his footsteps retreating toward his room before she finally closes her eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping her lungs. The victory felt like ash. He was leaving, just like she wanted. So why did the penthouse suddenly feel so much emptier?