The Summit was a sea of navy blazers and national flags. Mild moved through the crowd at Arm's side, dressed in a sharp, feminine-cut charcoal suit. He was efficient, silent, and dead behind the eyes—until he spotted a familiar face in the press gallery.
Kavin was there, but he wasn't taking photos. He was leaning against a pillar, looking like a man who hadn't slept in a week.
During a break in the sessions, Mild cornered him in a quiet corridor behind the main stage.
"Why are you still doing this, Kavin?" Mild hissed, his eyes darting around to make sure Arm wasn't watching. "You saw what happened at the hearing. You're ruined, I'm ruined... why do you keep following me?"
Kavin looked at him, a strange, tired softness in his gaze. "You don't remember, do you?"
Mild frowned. "Remember what?"
"Four years ago. Before St. Jude's. The district photography competition," Kavin said, his voice a low hum. " I dropped my memory card in the rain. All my files, my entire portfolio... gone. I was sitting on the curb crying like a kid."
Mild blinked, a faint, blurry memory of a rain-slicked sidewalk surfacing.
"A kid in a middle-school uniform stopped," Kavin continued. "He didn't know me. He just spent two hours helping me dry that card and recover the data using a laptop he'd borrowed from a teacher. He told me, 'Don't let the rain stop the story.'"
Kavin stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "That was you, Mild. You gave me my career before it even started. So when I saw Arm circling you, I didn't see a 'project.' I saw the only person who was ever kind to me for no reason. I'm not following you because I want a story, Mild. I'm following you because I'm trying to find a way to pay you back."
The weight of Kavin's confession hung in the air, more suffocating than the charcoal suit Arm had draped him in. Mild stared at Kavin, seeing not the cynical voyeur of St. Jude's, but the boy on the curb, the one who had almost lost his dream to a summer storm.
"I didn't do it for a favor," Mild whispered, his voice cracking. "I did it because it was the right thing to do. You had talent, Kavin. I didn't want the world to miss it."
"And I don't want the world to miss you," Kavin countered, reaching out to steady Mild's trembling hand. "Arm isn't 'building' you, Mild. He's taxidermying you. He's hollowing out everything that was kind and real and replacing it with silk and silence. If you stay in that office, the person who helped me in the rain will be gone forever."
Before Mild could respond, the heavy velvet curtains behind them rustled. The air in the corridor turned ice-cold. Arm stepped out from the shadows of the stage wing, his presence like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
"The session resumes in three minutes, Secretariat," Arm said, his voice a smooth, terrifying purr. He didn't look at Kavin; he looked through him, as if he were a smudge on a lens. "I don't recall 'nostalgic reunions' being on the itinerary."
Kavin didn't flinch. He met Arm's gaze with a defiance that had been missing for weeks. "I was just reminding Mild of who he used to be, President. Sometimes the most expensive suits have the cheapest linings."
Arm's eyes flickered—a brief, jagged flash of lightning. He walked over to Mild, his hand landing with proprietary weight on the back of Mild's neck. His thumb traced the line where the charcoal collar met Mild's skin.
"Mild knows exactly who he is," Arm said softly, his voice echoing in the narrow space. "He's the man who stands by my side while we change the world. He's the man who realized that 'kindness' is just a currency for people who have nothing else to spend."
Arm turned his focus to Mild, his gaze dropping to the lapel of the suit. "Go to the podium. Check the microphone levels. And Mild? Throw away whatever Kavin gave you. Sentimental trash is a choking hazard."
Mild looked at Kavin one last time—a silent, pleading look—before turning and walking toward the stage. Each step felt like a betrayal of the boy on the curb, the girl at the gate, and the person he used to be.
The evening gala was the pinnacle of the Summit. The ballroom was a masterpiece of orchestrated prestige. As the orchestra played a haunting, minor-key waltz, Arm moved through the elite crowd like a shark in a tuxedo, with Mild trailing three paces behind, carrying a tablet of bios and talking points.
But something was different. The "Arm-y" and the "Pearl Petals" were whispering, their phones glowing in the dim light. Bella was leaning against a marble pillar, her face pale as she stared at her screen.
Suri approached Mild while Arm was distracted by a visiting senator. Her usual sharp expression was replaced by a look of genuine concern.
"Mild," she whispered, leaning in. "Someone just leaked the full security footage from the night of the gala. Not the edited clip Kavin had. The unfiltered one from the hidden service elevator."
Mild's heart skipped a beat. "What?"
"It shows Arm," Suri breathed, her eyes darting toward the President. "It shows him taking the Rolex out of his own pocket and dropping it into your bag while you were distracted by the fire alarm. It shows everything, Mild. The setup. The fraud. It's going viral on the National Press feed, not just the school forum."
Mild looked across the room. Kavin was standing by the tech booth, a laptop open in front of him. He wasn't hiding anymore. He raised a hand in a small, solemn salute. He had recovered the data—not from the rain, but from the darkness of Arm's own empire.
The music suddenly cut out. The giant projector screens, meant to show the "Success of the Youth Summit," flickered to life.
Arm froze. He turned toward the screen, his mask finally shattering. There, in high-definition, was the proof of his obsession. The "Masterpiece" he had built was based on a lie so ugly it made the room gasp.
"Mild," Arm whispered, his voice finally losing its melodic drone. He turned to the boy behind him, reaching out, not with tenderness, but with the desperation of a drowning man. "Mild, I can fix this. I can tell them it was a test. A lesson in loyalty."
Mild looked at the hand reaching for him—the hand that had dressed him, the hand that had threatened Georgia, the hand that had stolen his life. For the first time in months, Mild didn't flinch. He reached up and unbuttoned the high, choking collar of the charcoal suit.
"You didn't build me, Arm," Mild said, his voice clear and resonant, carrying through the silent ballroom. "You just tried to hide the parts of me you couldn't buy."
Mild turned his back on the President of St. Jude's. He walked past the stunned elite, past the flashing cameras, and straight toward the exit.
At the heavy oak doors, Georgia was waiting. She wasn't wearing silk or velvet; she was in her faded denim jacket, her smile the only light he needed.
"Ready to go home?" she asked, her voice a warm breeze.
Mild took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers—a love that needed no receipt. "Yeah," he said, looking back at the crumbling golden world behind him. "I'm ready to be real again."
As the echoes of the gala faded into the night, the fallout from Arm's exposure rippled through St. Jude's. But Arm was not one to be easily defeated.
In the days that followed, Arm leveraged his father's connections, the real President, to solidify his grip on the school. He orchestrated a series of meetings, painting himself as a misunderstood leader caught in a web of deceit. With a carefully crafted narrative, he spun the leaked footage as a smear campaign against him, one designed to undermine the progress he had made for St. Jude's.
"People need a leader who can endure the storm," he told a gathering of influential parents and students. "And I'm that leader. I will not be taken down by a simple misunderstanding."
Mild watched from the sidelines, his heart heavy. Despite the chaos, Mild felt Arm's gaze on him like a persistent shadow, lurking just behind him. Even after the gala, Arm refused to let him go, often finding ways to pull him back into his orbit.
One afternoon, Mild confronted Arm in the student council room, a space that had once felt empowering but now felt like a cage.
"Arm, you need to stop this," Mild said, his voice steady but his heart racing. "I can't keep doing this. If you don't leave me alone, I swear I'll transfer to another school."
Arm leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "Transfer? Really? And give up all the perks of being my right hand? You wouldn't dare. Besides, would the organization that sponsors you just allow you to change schools as you wish?"
Mild stepped closer, his determination hardening. "What do you really want with me, Arm? Is it power? Control? Or is it just amusement? Because I'm done being your plaything."
Arm's expression shifted, a flicker of something darker crossing his features. "Oh, Mild. You really think it's about that? I enjoy teasing you, pulling you close and pushing you away. It's far more entertaining than you realize."
As Mild stormed out, he felt a mixture of anger and sadness. He was tired of being caught in Arm's web. The last thing he wanted was to be seen as a pawn in someone else's game.
Alone in his office, Arm's facade began to crack. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall, lost in thought. Images of Mild flooded his mind—the way the light caught his pale skin, the delicate curve of his legs in that tailored suit, the shy smile that made Arm's heart race despite himself.
Mild was beautiful in a way that transcended mere looks; it was his nature, the way he carried himself with a quiet confidence that drew others in. Arm felt an unsettling mix of admiration and envy.
Does everyone see him as I do? The thought gnawed at him. He had always wanted to be in control, yet here was Mild, effortlessly captivating attention with that gentle demeanor.
Arm's heart raced as he considered the implications. He didn't just want Mild by his side for power or companionship; he craved that attention, that allure, for himself. But the deeper realization settled in—he wanted to possess that beauty, to mold it into something that belonged solely to him.
With a newfound determination, Arm began plotting again. He could not let Mild slip away, not when he was so close to achieving everything he wanted.
He crafted a new plan that would ensure Mild would remain by his side, one that would intertwine their destinies even further. This time, it would involve leveraging the very thing that made Mild special—his looks and charm.
As Mild walked through the familiar hallways, he felt a sense of impending change. He had made his decision: he would not let Arm dictate his life any longer. With Kavin's support and Georgia's unwavering belief in him, Mild was ready to stand firm.
"I won't let him take away who I am," Mild muttered to himself, his heart racing with resolve.
***
The limousine, a sleek, obsidian shadow, glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Armitage estate. Arm stepped out onto the polished granite drive, the scent of expensive gasoline mixing with the damp, chilly air. The house was less a home and more a monument to dynastic wealth: a sprawling, neo-classical monstrosity with more wings than a small airport.
Inside, the silence was total, suffocating. The high ceilings and marble floors amplified the solitude. Arm walked through the echoing halls, shedding his tailored blazer and tossing it onto an antique chaise lounge. The "Masterpiece" was now alone in his museum. His father, the man whose wealth was the very foundation of St. Jude's, was perpetually absent, managing a global portfolio that was far more engaging than his son.
Arm found his way to the vast, professional-grade kitchen, the only room that ever held the faint scent of actual human activity. Mrs. Maya, a woman whose face was a roadmap of lived experience and quiet resilience, was methodically polishing the stainless steel hood. She was a small, silver-haired woman in a crisp uniform, and her presence was the only warmth in the house.
"The Summit was a success, I suppose," Arm said, leaning against the cold countertop, his voice feeling strangely hollow.
Mrs. Maya didn't look up, her movements practiced and soothing. "The papers say you handled a... situation... with great composure, Mr. Armitage." Her tone was neutral, but Arm felt the unspoken judgment in the pause.
He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Maya, can I ask you something personal?"
She finally stopped polishing and turned to him, her brown eyes steady. "My life is an open book, sir. Forty years of cleaning up after other people's dramas. Ask away."
"Matters of the heart," Arm began, carefully choosing his words. "You've been married. You have children. You... know how the world works outside of contracts and leverage. When you... when you admire someone deeply—not for what they can give you, but for what they are—how do you... how do you get them to look at you the way you want?"
Mrs. Maya leaned back, crossing her arms. A gentle, knowing smile touched the corners of her lips. "Ah, the old puzzle. Mr. Armitage, are you telling me the President of St. Jude's has a crush?"
Arm bristled, but the denial felt weak even to his own ears. "I don't have a crush. I have... an objective. A person of interest who needs to recognize the... the superiority of my vision. Their potential is wasted on sentiment."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Maya said plainly. "A crush is a crush, no matter how much you dress it up in a tuxedo. When you admire someone, you want to be admired back. So, who is the lucky, or perhaps unlucky, person who has captured your attention?"
"It doesn't matter who it is," Arm clipped, pushing away from the counter. "Just tell me what you know. You're older, you have experience. What's the trick?"
Mrs. Maya placed the polishing cloth down, her voice softening to a low, earnest tone. "The trick, Mr. Armitage, is that there is no trick. Love and attraction, they don't respond to strategy. They don't take a bribe. But there are ways to invite attention that is real. First, stop trying to own them. That just makes them run faster. Second, a person who is beautiful inside and out," she paused, her eyes meeting his, "they crave kindness. Real, uncalculated kindness. Not a loan, not a favor, but a gesture that asks for nothing in return. Show them your soft lining, Mr. Armitage. Not the expensive suit."
Arm gave a dismissive wave. "So, you're telling me to be nice? To a person who has actively tried to undermine my authority? That's ridiculous. That's weakness."
"It's a gamble," she corrected. "But a gamble of the heart is the only one that pays out in something real. Now, I have floors to mop. You think about it. And don't worry, your secret is safe with me." She knew. She absolutely knew.
Meanwhile, Mild had stumbled upon the true extent of Arm's power, not through gossip or a hidden camera, but through a cold, simple fact in a public financial disclosure statement. Armitage Holdings LLC: Sole Shareholder, St. Jude's Academy.
The discovery was a punch to the gut. It wasn't just Arm's father's connections; Arm's father was the school. Challenging Arm wasn't a school disciplinary matter; it was challenging the foundation of the very institution. He had been aiming a water pistol at a battleship.
The fight drained out of him. The righteous anger, the need to expose, the defiant posture—it all collapsed into a weary, defeated silence. He stopped trying to provoke. He stopped looking for Kavin. He even started avoiding Georgia, afraid that his proximity would make her a target again.
When he saw Arm in the halls, Mild would simply drop his gaze and turn the other way, becoming a ghost in his own life. The boy who had helped Kavin in the rain was now just a student minding his own, lonely business.
The stress of the past weeks, combined with the crushing realization of his powerlessness, finally caught up to Mild. He woke up one morning with a pounding headache, a fever that made his skin sweat and then shiver, and a cough that felt like sandpaper in his throat. He missed school that day, and the next.
On the afternoon of the second day, a quiet knock came at his door. Mild's mother was at her evening shift. He coughed, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
"Go away," he croaked, assuming it was the mailman or a neighbor.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Arm stood framed in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a light gray cashmere sweater and dark trousers, holding a discreet bag from a high-end gourmet market. He looked utterly out of place in Mild's cozy, slightly cluttered living room.
"You missed my Ethics Seminar on the 'Virtues of Calculated Retribution,' Secretariat," Arm said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual melodic edge.
"I'm sick, Arm," Mild mumbled, turning his face to the wall. "Leave."
Arm ignored him. He walked into the kitchen, the bags rustling. Mild heard the sound of water running, then the gentle clatter of a pot being placed on the stove. Arm returned with a bottle of water and two tablets.
"Tylenol," Arm stated, placing them on the bedside table. "And don't look at me like that. I don't want my aide spreading some plebeian flu to the student body."
Mild pushed himself up on an elbow, his eyes burning with fever and suspicion. "I don't need your help. Are you going to poison me now? Is this your new loyalty test?"
Arm sat on the edge of the bed, a surprisingly heavy weight that Mild felt through the mattress. He reached out and gently placed the back of his hand on Mild's forehead, his touch cool and unexpectedly tender.
"Your fever is too high to be a performance, Mild," Arm said, a rare flicker of something that wasn't control in his eyes. "And I don't engage in petty poisons. I leverage truth. Now, stop being an idiot and take the medicine."
Mild, too weak to fight, swallowed the pills with the water. Arm, still silent, went back to the kitchen. He returned with a bowl of perfectly clear, steaming consommé—the kind that tasted like pure, distilled goodness.
"My grandmother used to insist on this," Arm explained, his focus entirely on the bowl, avoiding Mild's eyes. "Says it's the only thing that breaks a stubborn fever."
He helped Mild sit up and held the bowl while Mild slowly, reluctantly, drank the warm broth. Arm stayed there, a silent, confusing presence, until the bowl was empty.
As Arm stood to leave, he paused by the door.
"You asked me what I want, Mild," Arm said, his back still to him. "Right now? I want you well. Because your absence is far less entertaining than being defied."
Arm walked out, the click of the lock a small sound in the sudden silence. Mild was left with the lingering warmth of the consommé, the fading coolness of the hand on his forehead, and a profound, terrifying confusion. The man who was trying to break him had just, inexplicably, nursed him.