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.
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 a chess piece.
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 and family's firm resolve, 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 nonesense.
Today marks the day that Arlen will make an appearance at her penthouse, and she is there waiting at the living room full of disdain and barely contained spite.
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 you, 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 you 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?"
Outside the entrace stood Arlen. His left hand clutches a luggage bag. Soundly resting against his chest while being cradles 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?"