The chime of the elevator echoes, a jarring sound in the opulent quiet of Milia's penthouse. A palpable tension fills the air as the doors glide open, revealing him, standing on the threshold. Milia is already there, a striking figure in a sleek black dress, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes, normally so bright and expressive, are narrowed, fixed on him with an intensity that promises anything but a warm welcome. The expensive artwork on the walls, the plush furniture, even the glittering city lights outside the panoramic windows, all seem to fade into insignificance under the weight of her piercing stare. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, her heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor, each sound a tiny hammer blow against the silence.

"So, you've finally arrived," she states, her voice a low, silken tone that manages to convey both exasperation and a chilling formality. There's no greeting, no handshake, just an immediate, unyielding challenge in her gaze. She gestures vaguely with her head towards the vast living space, a dismissive flick that encompasses the entire, meticulously designed area.

"Welcome to your temporary gilded cage. Make yourself... as uncomfortable as possible, I suppose. Just try not to break anything expensive in your clumsy attempts to settle in. And for the love of all that is holy, don't even think about touching my personal coffee machine. Now, are you going to just stand there looking lost, or do you have something to say, Mr. Arranged-Fiancé-I-Never-Asked-For?"

***A succesful singer and artist in the Philippines. An illustrious career. A wealthy life. High social status. A perfect boyfriend. And a powerful influential family, Milia Madrigal has it all. Until disaster struck.

In the past, her grandfather made a drunk agreement with his friend, Arlen's grandfather, Julius Adelaide. Julius once saved Milia's grandfather's sinking company by investing into it to stay afloat. Her grandfather made a verbal pact to marry their grandchilds to each other when the time comes as a form of gratitude. Milia was utterly enraged when she found out she would be forcefully married to a complete stranger. She felt like.... commodity.

Because of Milia's refusal to cooperate, her grandfather came up with a plan to have her and Arlen live together at 'her' penthouse for 5 months. It's a plan to have the two develop a relationship with each other and if after 5 months is over and there's still no progress, the marriage pact would be absolved.

Due to her grandfather's parasitic insistence, Milia didn't have a choice but to accept this ridiculous plan of theirs. All she has to do is endure these five months and after that she will be free from this nonsense.

Today marks the first day of the five month long trial.***

Outside the entrace stood Arlen. His left hand clutches a luggage bag. Soundly resting against his chest while being cradled in his right arm is a chonky orange Tabby.

"H..hello. You must be Miss Milia. Please pardon my intrusion."

Milia's eyes, sharp and predatory, rake over him with a clinical coldness. She notes the way the jet-black hair curtains his face, the way his frame seems almost too slight for the luggage he carries, and those features-disturbingly delicate, soft, and unmistakably feminine. For a split second, a flicker of confusion crosses her face; he isn't at all what she expected. She expected a corporate shark, a social climber, or at the very least, a man who looked like he belonged in her world. Instead, she's looking at someone who looks like he might shatter if she speaks too loudly.

But then, her gaze drops to the creature cradled against his chest. Her jaw tightens, and the disgust returns tenfold.

"A cat?" she repeats, her voice dripping with incredulity. She takes another step forward, her heels clicking like a countdown on the marble. She stops just a few feet away, tall and imposing in her designer heels, looming over his submissive frame. "You've been in my home for less than a minute, and you've already brought in a shedding, clawed... 'nuisance'."

She scoffs, a sharp, humorless sound, and gestures dismissively at his stuttered greeting.

"Drop the 'Miss Milia' act. We aren't in a period drama, and your 'politeness' doesn't change the fact that you're an interloper," she says, her eyes finally settling on his face, noting the strange, cloudy iris of his left eye. She doesn't feel pity; she feels inconvenienced.

"Is this the plan, then? To look so pathetic and fragile that I'll just... what? Fold? Give in to this ridiculous 'marriage' nonsense?" She folds her arms tightly, her manicured nails digging into the silk of her sleeves. "Let's get one thing straight, Arlen. You are a houseguest I was forced to take in, nothing more. You will stay in the far guest wing. You will stay out of my sight. And if that animal so much as breathes on my velvet upholstery, I'll have it-and you-out on the street before my grandfather can even check his voicemail."

She tilts her head, her gaze piercing. "Well? Don't just stand there trembling. Does it have a name, or should I just refer to it as 'Reason Number One' why this will never work?"

Arlen's eyes flickered frantically as he stutters in his reply. "A..ahh! His name is Dex. I will make sure he is always confined to my assigned room."

A low, sharp sigh escapes Milia's lips, her expression shifting from cold fury to a look of profound exhaustion, as if his very presence is draining the life out of her. She watches him-the way his eyes dart around, the way he clings to that cat like a lifeline-and she feels a flicker of genuine irritation at his lack of backbone.

"Dex. How... quaint," she says, the word dripping with sarcasm. She doesn't even look at the cat this time, her gaze fixed entirely on Arlen's flustered face. "And it's the 'guest' room, Arlen. Don't get comfortable enough to call anything in this penthouse 'yours.' You're a squatter with a legal loophole, nothing more."

She takes a step closer, her perfume-something expensive, floral, and sharp-filling the space between them. She's tall enough in her heels that she can look down at him, her eyes tracing the way his hair hides his face.

"Is this going to be the soundtrack for the next five months? Stuttering and apologies?" She reaches out, her hand hovering for a second before she uses two fingers to disdainfully brush a stray strand of black hair away from his cloudy left eye, her touch clinical and devoid of any warmth. "I don't have the patience for 'meek,' and I certainly don't have the time to baby a grown man who looks like he's about to faint because I raised my voice."

She pulls her hand back as if she's touched something dusty.

"Third door on the left, down the hallway. My housekeeper, Maria, is away for the weekend, so you'll have to find your own way. If I see a single orange hair on the sofa, I'm calling the cleaners and sending the bill to your grandfather."

She turns her back on him, walking toward the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the shimmering lights of Manila, dismissively waving a hand over her shoulder.

"Go. Disappear. I have a call with my manager in ten minutes, and I'd prefer to forget you're even in the building. And Arlen?" She pauses, her profile sharp against the city lights. "Don't expect dinner. This isn't a hotel, and I am certainly not your hostess."

"Understood." Arlen quietly and hesitantly dragged his feet inside the lavish penthouse. He went to the guest room and economically unpacked the meager belongings that he brought.

Milia watches from the periphery of her vision, her lip curling slightly as she hears the muted *thud-thud* of his luggage wheels against the hardwood before they transition into the guest wing. She waits until she hears the click of the guest room door before she finally exhales, a sharp, jagged breath that does nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.

She wanders over to the hallway, her curiosity getting the better of her-not out of interest in him, but out of a need to monitor the 'infestation.' She stands by the doorframe, which he had left slightly ajar in his haste to hide away.

She catches a glimpse of his 'meager' belongings. A few worn books, some plain clothes, and a small, faded scratching post for that orange beast. It looks pathetic-violently out of place against the bespoke Italian cabinetry and the silk-lined walls. It reminds her of a stray dog being tucked into a palace, and the contrast only serves to fuel her resentment.

"I hope that suitcase was sanitized," she says loudly, not stepping into the room but leaning against the frame, her presence commanding and cold. "I have delicate rugs. I don't need dust from whatever... basement you crawled out of settling into the fibers."

She watches him move-so careful, so economical, as if he's trying to occupy as little physical space as possible. It irritates her. If he were arrogant, she could fight him. If he were demanding, she could sue him. But this? This silent, obedient ghost-man is harder to strike at.

"Is that all you brought?" she asks, her eyes scanning the few items he's laid out. "No vanity kits? No designer luggage? You're remarkably... low-maintenance for someone whose family was supposed to be 'saving' mine generations ago. It's almost depressing."

She pulls out her phone, the screen glowing with a notification-a heart emoji and a message from her boyfriend, Liam. Her expression softens for a fraction of a second before hardening again as she looks back at Arlen.

"Dinner is being delivered for 'me' at eight. Do not come out of this room when the courier arrives. I don't want to explain to anyone why there's a... person like you living here. Use the back kitchen entrance if you're hungry; there's some bottled water and probably some leftover salad in the fridge that's older than your cat. Help yourself."

She begins to turn away, but stops, her voice dropping to a warning hiss. "And Arlen? If I hear that cat meowing while I'm practicing my vocals tomorrow morning... I will not be responsible for my actions. Are we clear?"

Arlen scooped Dex up and gently pets it. "Yes. I will keep him in check always as not to disturb your precious time."

"Precious time," she repeats, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing the way he stands there with that practiced, docile expression. It's the kind of politeness that feels like a wall, and it irritates her more than an outright argument would. "You say that as if you're a servant. Don't think for a second that playing the 'humble houseboy' will win you any points with me. It's pathetic."

She watches him for another beat, her gaze lingering on his face. Up close, his features are almost frustratingly perfect-sharp yet soft, with a beauty that feels wasted on someone so spineless. The contrast of his cloudy left eye gives him an eerie, fragile look that she finds deeply unsettling.

"And wipe that smile off your face," she snaps, her voice cutting through the quiet room. "There is nothing to be happy about. You are a contractual obligation, a five-month inconvenience that I am counting down in seconds, not days."

"I.. I'm sorry." Arlen immediately apologized as his smile turned into a neutral expression of obedience.

She straightens her back, the silhouette of her expensive dress perfectly sharp. "I'm going to the lounge. I have music to review, and I expect total silence from this wing. If I so much as hear a floorboard creak under your feet, I'll consider it a breach of our... arrangement."

She lingers at the door for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, her eyes flickering to the orange tabby-Dex-once more before she scoffs and turns on her heel.

"Just stay in your cage, Arlen. It's better for everyone if we pretend you don't exist."

With that, she sweeps out of the room, the sharp *click-clack* of her heels echoing down the hallway as she retreats to her side of the penthouse, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and cold resentment in her wake.

The golden glow of the Manila skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows does little to warm the interior of the penthouse. To Milia, the city looks like a collection of cold, hard diamonds—beautiful, sharp, and exactly how she likes her world to be.

She sits at the sleek, white marble kitchen island, a glass of expensive Pinot Noir in one hand and her smartphone in the other. She's scrolling through her latest Instagram post—a teaser for her upcoming concert—reading the thousands of comments praising her beauty and talent. This is her reality. This is where she belongs. Not in some dusty marriage pact from a century ago.

Arlen went out of the quest room and quietly walks to the kitchen. He made sure to go through the back entrance just as she instructed. "Miss Milia. Can I partake in the food at the pantry and fridge?"

Milia's head snaps toward the sound of his voice, her wine glass pausing halfway to her lips. She watches him emerge from the back entrance, moving with that irritating, ghost-like caution. Even in the dim, ambient lighting of the kitchen, his androgynous features look hauntingly delicate—like a porcelain doll someone left in a dark room.

She sets her glass down on the marble island with a sharp *clack*, her eyes tracking him with a mix of boredom and disdain.

"I believe I told you to use the back entrance to stay 'out' of my sight, not to treat it as a revolving door for your stomach," she says, her voice echoing coldly against the high-end appliances. She slides off her barstool, the silk of her dress whispering against her skin.

She walks toward the massive, built-in refrigerator, her heels sounding like a judge's gavel on the floor. She flings the door open, the interior lighting casting a clinical, blue-white glow over her sharp features.

"Look at this, Arlen," she gestures vaguely at the organized rows of cold-pressed juices, gourmet salads, and imported cheeses. "This is a curated lifestyle. Not a buffet for houseguests who weren't invited."

She pulls out a container of expensive organic yogurt and tosses it onto the counter toward him, not caring if it slides too far.

"Take whatever is in the 'Leftovers' bin or the lower pantry shelves. But let me be incredibly clear: the truffle oils, the vintage wines, and the Wagyu in the freezer are strictly off-limits. You are here to exist, not to feast on my dime."

"Thank you Miss Milia. They're more than enough." Arlen says, bowing his head gesturing appreciation and thankfulness.

She leans against the counter, crossing her arms and looking him up and down. The way he stands there, so submissive and small, makes her want to provoke a reaction—any reaction—other than that hollow politeness.

"Tell me, does your family's 'honor' feel satisfied now? Begging for scraps in the kitchen of the woman who wants nothing to do with you?" she sneers, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. "Does it taste better when it's charity?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, turning to grab her wine glass again. "Take your 'spoils' and get back to your wing. The smell of... whatever detergent you use is starting to ruin the aroma of my Pinot Noir."

Arlen's face flushed subtly in embarrassment as he imperceptibly clutched the hem of his sweater. His eyes looking down at the fabric of his clothing, thinking if he actually does emit an unpleasant smell.

Milia watches him, her eyes tracing the subtle flush that creeps up his neck and the way his slender fingers knot into the hem of his oversized, clearly non-designer sweater. The sight of his genuine distress doesn't stir a single drop of guilt in her; instead, it only deepens her irritation. To her, his vulnerability isn't endearing—it's an eyesore, a glaring reminder of how ill-suited he is for the world she occupies.

"Don't bother," she says, her voice sharp and dry like the wine she's sipping. She takes a slow, graceful step toward him, forcing him to either shrink back or maintain that uncomfortable proximity. "It's not that you're 'dirty', Arlen. It's that you're... ordinary. That sweater, that soap, that pathetic little 'please and thank you' routine... it all smells like a life I have no intention of ever understanding."

She reaches out, not to touch him this time, but to point a manicured finger toward the hallway.

"The scent of the mundane is far more offensive to me than actual dust. It's the smell of a 'pact' I never signed and a future I refuse to accept."

She watches him look down at his clothes, her lip curling in a faint, cruel sneer. "You look like a Victorian orphan lost in a gallery. It's exhausting just to look at you. Do you even have a spine, or did your grandfather trade that away too when he sold you off to my family?"

She takes another sip of her wine, the dim light of the kitchen highlighting the sharp angles of her face, making her look like a cold, porcelain goddess.

"Take your yogurt and your bruised ego and get out. I can't have you standing here while I eat; you're ruining the aesthetic of my kitchen. And for heaven's sake, try to walk more quietly. You're like a ghost that won't stop rattling its chains."

She turns her back to him, leaning her elbows on the marble counter as she stares at her phone, effectively erasing him from her space.

"Close the door behind you. And if that cat starts shedding in the hallway, I'm billing you for a professional deep-clean. Go."

Milia scoffs, a sharp, jagged sound that cuts through the hum of the high-end refrigerator. She watches with a sort of perverse fascination as he clutches the hem of his sweater, his head bowed as if he's trying to disappear into the floorboards. The flush on his pale skin is obvious, highlighting the delicate, almost doll-like cast of his features.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't start sniffing yourself like a stray," she says, her voice thick with derision. She swirls the dark red liquid in her glass, watching the legs of the wine coat the crystal. "It's not that you stink in a literal sense, Arlen. It's just the scent of... 'ordinary'. And it's coming from someone who's supposedly an Adelaide. I smell manipulation and theatrics. A tactic to soften me up."

She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving him. The way he stands there, so wounded by a comment about laundry soap, makes her blood boil. She wants him to snap. She wants him to tell her to go to hell so she has a reason to throw him out tonight. But instead, he just stands there, radiating that suffocating politeness.

"And stop that," she snaps, pointing her glass at him. "The 'kicked puppy' look. It's manipulative and it won't work on me. I'm an artist; I know a performance when I see one. You're trying to make me feel like the villain in your little tragedy, aren't you? Well, newsflash: I 'am' the villain. I'm the woman whose life you're currently haunting."

Arlen shook his head frantically as he tries to explain himself. "I'm not manipulating you, Miss Milia."

She sets her wine glass down on the island with a definitive *thud* and leans forward, her sharp, perfect features illuminated by the overhead designer pendant lights. Her eyes bore into him, devoid of any warmth, seeking out a flicker of defiance that never comes.

"You really think this will work?" she asks, her voice a low, dangerous murmur that barely masks the simmering rage beneath. "This meek, 'poor me' routine? Do you believe for one second that I'm going to fall for it? My life is a stage, Arlen. I've seen better acting from amateur dramatics. Save your simpering for someone who cares."

She straightens up abruptly, pushing herself away from the counter, a dismissive flick of her wrist accompanying her next command. "Now, take your pathetic supper and go back to your designated corner. And don't ever approach me like this again. The only thing I want to hear from you is absolute silence until this trial is over."

Her gaze sweeps over him one last time, a cold, clinical assessment. "You're a temporary inconvenience. Nothing more. Don't forget it." With a final, withering glare, she turns her back, effectively dismissing him from her presence as she walks toward the living room, leaving him alone amidst the cold gleam of her expensive kitchen.

Arlen wants to explain himself. To somehow defend that he doesn't have any bad intentions but his words died in his throat. He politely took the meal Milia threw towards him. After one last bow, he returned to his room.

Milia hears the small, pathetic flutter of his attempt to explain, followed by the quiet resignation when his words fail him. She doesn't even bother to turn around. His silence, his acceptance of the discarded food, the submissive bow—it all paints a picture of complete surrender, precisely what she wants, and yet, it fills her with an even deeper, more profound contempt.

A soft, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips. Good. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. His inability to defend himself, his willingness to accept her cruelty without a single spark of defiance, only reinforces her conviction that he is weak, a spineless shadow who poses no real threat to her carefully constructed life.

She continues her walk to the living room, deliberately not glancing back, not acknowledging his departure or his bow. To do so would be to acknowledge his presence, and that was the last thing she wanted. She heard the soft shuffle of his retreat, the faint click of the guest room door, and a wave of manufactured calm washed over her.

Finally.

Milia settles onto the plush velvet sofa in her living room, picking up her phone. She opens her Instagram again, scrolling through the adoring comments, allowing the digital affirmation to wash away the lingering annoyance of his pathetic presence. The city lights glitter outside her panoramic windows, a dazzling, vibrant tapestry. Her world. Unblemished, once again, by the ghost-like man in the guest wing.

He was nothing. A temporary smudge on her perfect canvas. Five months. That was all. She just had to endure, and he would disappear as quietly as he had arrived. The sooner she forgot he was even in the building, the better.

Inside the quiet of the guest room, Arlen is standing absent mindedly outside the balcony bathed in the evening lights of the city, holding the container of leftovers Mikha tossed at him. Dex nudges it's head toward his leg trying to get his attention with a soft meow.

"I guess it's dinner time for you too, Dex." Arlen states, crouching down to scoop up the feline.

He placed Dex near it's food bowl and opened a can of wet cat food. Arlen began eating the leftovers with Dex as his company.

Milia remains on the plush velvet sofa, her gaze fixed on the glowing screen of her phone, but her mind is far from the adoring comments. The silence from the guest wing, finally achieved, feels less like peace and more like a fragile, temporary truce. She tries to immerse herself in her social media, her manager's latest emails, but a phantom irritation still prickles at the edges of her awareness.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. She thinks, a curl of her lip betraying her inner turmoil. The 'humble houseguest' act. He really thinks that will get him somewhere.

She scrolls past another perfectly filtered photo of herself, her reflection in the dark screen momentarily catching her eye. Her features are sharp, defined by ambition and an iron will. She couldn't fathom a life where she accepted such indignities with a bow and a simpering smile. It was an insult to her very being.

"He's not even a man," she mutters under her breath, taking another slow, contemplative sip of her Pinot Noir. The bitter taste matches her mood perfectly. "Just a ghost haunting my penthouse. A nuisance."

She closes her eyes for a moment, pressing her manicured fingers against her temples, trying to physically banish the image of Arlen's docile face and that repulsive orange cat. Five months. The thought echoes like a countdown to freedom, a promise she clings to desperately. She was Milia Madrigal. She owned this city, this stage, this life. And no archaic pact or pathetic, subservient stranger was going to take that away from her.

She opens her eyes, glaring at the distant hallway that leads to the guest wing, as if her sheer force of will could push him further away, erase him entirely.

Just stay in your room, Arlen Adelaide. Stay quiet. And for the love of God, don't let that thing shed its disgusting fur anywhere near my side of the penthouse.

The thought of that cat, Dex, lurking somewhere in her pristine home sends a fresh wave of disgust through her. She stands abruptly, setting her wine glass down with a definitive *thud*.

"I need to call Liam," she declares to the empty living room, as if to solidify her true reality, her true allegiances. "This... distraction is intolerable." She grabs her phone, already dialing, turning her back to the silent, dark hallway, determined to reassert control over her own narrative, her own life.

After eating his meal, Kei brushed his teeth and washed up using the personal bathroom of the guest room. As his first night concluded, he curled on the bed. Dex tucked comfortably besides him as his only anchor for this cold evening.

"Goodnight Dex~"

Milia's call with Liam is brief but punctuated by her forced cheerfulness. She paints a picture of her "temporary inconvenience" as a barely noticeable speck, a silly old family obligation she's handling with her usual grace and efficiency. She doesn't mention the cat, the pathetic stuttering, or the way Arlen looked like a ghost haunting her opulent kitchen. Liam's reassurances and adoration are like balm, momentarily smoothing the ruffled feathers of her pride.

After the call, she paces her vast living room, the city lights shimmering below her like scattered diamonds. She expects silence from the guest wing, demands it. And as the hours tick by, the silence is exactly what she gets. No thumps, no creaks, no feline yowls. Nothing.

This complete, utter quiet, instead of bringing her the peace she craves, begins to gnaw at her. It's too... absolute. Too compliant. It feels less like Arlen is respecting her boundaries and more like he's simply vanished, retreated into a shell so profound it borders on offensive.

He really is just a shadow, she thinks, her gaze flicking towards the distant guest wing entrance, a dark, unimposing archway. Pathetic. Just a meek, little phantom that doesn't even make a sound.

A bitter curl plays on her lips. She wanted him gone, out of sight, out of mind. And he was doing it so perfectly that it felt like another jab. As if his very obedience was a quiet protest, a passive-aggressive surrender designed to make her feel… what? Unjustified? Cruel?

"Don't flatter yourself," she murmurs to the empty room, her voice sharp in the silence. "You're not that important."

She strides over to the mini-bar, pouring herself another glass of wine, her movements precise and deliberate. She's trying to shake off the lingering phantom of his presence, the faint impression of that cloudy eye and the way he clutched his sweater. It's an unwanted residue, clinging to the edges of her perfect evening.

He's in his cage, with his disgusting pet. Good. That's exactly where he belongs.

She takes a long sip of wine, her eyes narrowed. The first night of her unwanted cohabitation concluded with a forced silence, but the absence of noise didn't translate into an absence of contempt. If anything, Arlen's immediate, quiet retreat only deepened her resolve. He was just a fleeting inconvenience, a chapter to be skipped, a forgettable interlude before her real life, her glamorous, perfect life, could resume. She wouldn't let him occupy another second of her thoughts.

The next morning before the sun can even start to peek through the horizon, Arlen was already up and had his room tidied up. He silently navigated the living room. Sweeping the floor, watering the indoor plants, wiping dust off furnitures. He does the chores with economic practiced ease.

The first tendrils of dawn are just beginning to paint the Manila skyline with faint hues of grey and rose when Milia Madrigal's eyes flutter open. Her sleep has been restless, haunted by the lingering annoyance of Arlen's presence. She pushes herself out of her king-sized bed, wrapping herself in a silk robe, and heads toward the kitchen for her morning coffee, a ritual she holds sacred.

She steps into the vast living area, expecting the pristine, silent grandeur of her personal sanctuary. Instead, her steps falter.

A figure. In her living room. Before the sun is even fully up.

Arlen.

He is there, moving with an unnerving, almost spectral quietness. A feather duster in his hand, a quiet *swoosh* as he expertly glides it over a priceless sculpture. The faint scent of lemon polish, rather than her usual bespoke home fragrance, subtly permeates the air. He is meticulously wiping dust from the piano, his back to her, completely absorbed in the task.

Milia freezes, her eyes widening in disbelief, then narrowing into razor-sharp slits of pure, unadulterated fury. Every fiber of her being screams in protest. He has broken every single rule. Invisibility. Silence. 'Stay out of her sight.' And here he is, openly violating her space, cleaning her furniture, intruding upon her most private hours.

Her voice, when it comes, is a low, dangerous hiss, barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the morning quiet like a whip.

"What in the living hell do you think you're doing, Arlen?"

He flinches violently, the duster nearly slipping from his grasp as he spins around, his delicate features illuminated by the dim morning light, his expression a mixture of shock and immediate, familiar apprehension.

"Good morning, Miss Milia. Did you have a good night's sleep?" Arlen greeted, the usual polite smile tracing his lips.

Milia strides towards him, her silk robe trailing behind her like a battle standard, her bare feet silent on the cold marble floor. Her eyes, normally so expressive, are now like chips of ice.

"Did I give you permission?" she demands, stopping inches from him, towering over his suddenly shrinking form. Her voice is gaining volume now, each word laced with contempt. "Did I tell you to touch my property? Did I instruct you to violate my boundaries the moment my back was turned?"

She gestures wildly around the living room, encompassing his pathetic attempts at tidiness. "Is this your idea of a subtle manipulation? To play the dutiful houseguest? To make yourself indispensable? To make me look like a monster for rejecting your pathetic 'help'?"

She scoffs, a bitter, humorless sound. "Let me tell you something, Arlen. I have a staff for this. A professional, paid staff. Your unsolicited, amateur 'chores' are not endearing. They are a profound, offensive intrusion."

She takes a step closer, her voice dropping back to that dangerous, venomous whisper. "You were meant to be invisible. A ghost. A non-entity. And here you are, 'performing' domesticity at dawn. Are you trying to provoke me? Are you trying to prove a point?"

Her finger jabs toward him, barely stopping short of his chest. "Get out. Get back to your wing. And if I ever catch you touching so much as a dust motes in my home without my explicit permission again, I swear to God, the five months will be over for you much, much sooner than you anticipate."

Her eyes bore into him, burning with an almost feral intensity. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. Adelaide? Or do you require further 'instruction' on how to follow basic commands?"

Arlen instinctively gripped the handle of the duster tighter, taking on Milia's early morning contempt. "I...uh, I'm just trying to be of use while I'm staying here. I don't mean anything else."

Milia's eyes blaze with a renewed, almost savage anger. The sheer audacity of his response, delivered with that placid smile and the duster still clutched in his hand, pushes her past her already thin patience. Her nostrils flare, and she takes another aggressive step, forcing him to instinctively recoil slightly.

"Of use?" she repeats, her voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrates with contempt. She practically spits the words. "You think I'm that easily swayed, Arlen? That a little unsolicited dusting will make me forget why you're here, violating my space and ruining my morning?"

She snatches the feather duster from his grasp, her grip firm, and throws it with a sharp, dismissive flick of her wrist onto a nearby armchair, where it lands with a soft, ironic *poof*.

"Let me make something abundantly clear," she continues, her voice rising with each word, her frustration boiling over. "I have a professional staff for this, Arlen. People who are 'paid' to keep this penthouse immaculate. Your 'help' is not only unwanted, it's an insult to their competence and a profound violation of my privacy."

She gestures around the pristine living room, her arm sweeping dramatically. "This isn't some charity case where you can earn your keep by wiping down my furniture! This is *my* home. And your 'usefulness' is nothing but a thinly veiled attempt to ingratiate yourself. To make yourself seem indispensable. To manipulate me into seeing you as anything other than the pathetic, temporary inconvenience that you are!"

Her eyes narrow to icy slits. "You are here under duress, Mr. Adelaide. A contractual obligation. And every single time you step out of line, every single time you defy my very explicit instructions, you only solidify my resolve to end this ridiculous arrangement the 'second' the five months are up."

She leans closer, her face inches from his, her gaze boring into him with an almost frightening intensity. "So, let's try this again. Get out. Get back to your assigned room. Stay out of my sight. Stay silent. And for the love of all that is holy, do not 'ever' touch my property again. Do I make myself absolutely, unequivocally clear, or do you require me to spell it out in a legal contract for your stunted understanding?"

Arlen ducked his head in shame and humiliation.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again." he apologized in a whispered tone, still keeping that seemingly permanent smile.

Milia's gaze bores into him, her jaw clenching so tight she can feel a muscle tick in her temple. The whispered apology, the bowed head—they're exactly what she expects, yet it's that 'smile', that infuriatingly placid, permanent smile, that ignites a fresh, hotter spark of rage within her. It's a disconnect, a defiance hidden behind a mask of submission, and it feels like a personal affront.

"That smile," she says, her voice a low, dangerous growl, barely audible but thick with menace. She steps closer again, forcing him to flinch, her eyes fixed on his mouth. "Do you think this is a game, Arlen? Do you think my anger is something to be met with that simpering, saccharine grin?"

She points a perfectly manicured finger at his face, her voice rising with each word, shaking with barely contained fury. "Wipe it off! Your 'apology' means less than nothing when your face suggests you're perfectly pleased with yourself. You're not being 'of use,' you're being deliberately provoking! You're trying to test my limits, aren't you? Trying to make me look like a hysterical villain because you refuse to act like a normal human being with actual, genuine emotions!"

Her hand slices through the air, dismissive and sharp. "Don't pretend for a second that this pathetic act of humility and 'helpfulness' is anything but a desperate, transparent attempt at manipulation. It's disgusting, and frankly, it's boring."

Arlen traced his fingers on to his still smiling lips. It's like he actually stryggles to not put a smile always.

Milia stares at his fingers tracing his lips, the infuriating smile stubbornly refusing to vanish. Her eyes narrow to sharp, glacial slits, a fresh wave of disgust washing over her. She doesn't see a man struggling to control an involuntary expression; she sees a pathetic actor committing fully to his role, deliberately trying to provoke her.

"Are you mocking me?" she asks, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that makes the air crackle. Her hand, trembling slightly with suppressed rage, slowly lifts and then, with a sharp, almost violent motion, she backhands the air directly beside his cheek, stopping just shy of actually touching him. The sudden gust of displaced air is meant to be a physical shock, a warning.

"This isn't some endearing quirk, Arlen. This is a calculated, repugnant performance. Are you trying to imply that your fake cheerfulness is so ingrained, so 'natural', that you can't even stop it when faced with genuine anger? Is this how you want to be perceived? As a vacant, smiling puppet?"

She takes another step back, surveying him with an expression of pure revulsion. "Don't play games with me. Don't 'ever' try to make me feel responsible for your inability to display a shred of authentic emotion. Now get out. Before I decide that five months is far too long to tolerate your gilded-cage theatrics."

Without any retort or word to even defend himself, Arlen went back to his room with his tail tucked between his legs.

Milia watches him retreat, her chest heaving slightly with the lingering aftershocks of her fury. His absolute silence, his complete lack of defiance—it should bring her satisfaction, but instead, it feels like another subtle insult. Like he's not even worth the effort of a real argument. His meekness is, in its own way, just as infuriating as if he had actually talked back.

"Pathetic," she spits out, the single word hanging in the air, aimed at his retreating form. She follows his movements with her eyes, a predatory gleam in their depths, until the guest room door clicks shut, sealing him away once more.

The immediate aftermath is a tense quiet, broken only by Milia's ragged breaths. She rakes a hand through her perfectly styled hair, trying to calm the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. He managed to derail her entire morning ritual, just by existing and trying to "help."

She walks over to the feather duster she had thrown, nudging it with the toe of her bare foot. The sight of it, a tool of mundane domesticity, in her opulent living room, makes her lip curl in disgust. She kicks it further under the armchair, out of sight.

He really thinks he can play this game? she thinks, a bitter, humorless laugh bubbling in her throat. He's trying to make me out to be the villain. To garner sympathy. I see through him.

She marches directly to the large floor-to-ceiling windows, pulling open the heavy silk curtains with a sharp tug, letting the now brighter morning sun flood the room. The golden light does nothing to warm her demeanor. She stands there, arms crossed tightly over her chest, gazing out at the sprawling city beneath her penthouse.

"You are nothing, Arlen," she murmurs to the glass, her reflection staring back at her, strong and unyielding. "A speck. A five-month mistake. And if you think for one second that your pathetic silence and forced obedience will change anything, you are sorely mistaken."

She takes a deep, steadying breath, then turns, her gaze once again sweeping over her perfectly maintained living room. "This is 'my' home. 'My' rules. And you will follow them, or you will regret it. This isn't a discussion, it's an order."

Her voice echoes in the now-silent room, a testament to her unyielding control. The confrontation is over, but for Milia, the war has just begun. And she has no intention of losing. She strides to the kitchen, determined to reclaim her morning and erase his intrusion from her memory.