While Mild struggled with his heart, Style was in the shadows of the lodge's garden, her phone pressed to her ear. The moonlight caught the sharp edge of her smile as the call connected.
"Father," she said, her voice dropping to a cold, businesslike tone. "The reports were accurate. The Armitage boy isn't just distracted; he's compromised. I think he's gay, Father. And he's hopelessly fixated on the scholarship aide."
On the other end of the line, the silence of a high-rise office in the city was palpable. Her father's voice, raspy and calculating, finally spoke. "Are you certain? The Armitage family has built their entire political platform on 'Traditional National Values.' A scandal like this wouldn't just ruin the boy; it would shatter the father's chances at the Ministry seat."
"I saw him in the tunnel," Style confirmed, pacing the grass. "He looks at the boy like a man dying of thirst. He can't hide it anymore. The 'Masterpiece' is his undoing."
"Good," her father replied. "I only agreed to this betrothal because their bank held our northern assets hostage. We were in a disadvantaged position, but this... this is the leverage we needed. If we expose the heir's 'deviance' and his obsession with a commoner, we don't just break the engagement—we control them, that man values traditions, he will be shaken by this."
Style looked back at the lodge, where a single light burned in Arm's window. "What's the plan?"
"Keep them close," her father commanded. "Wait for the perfect moment. We need proof—not just a look in a cave, but a moment of undeniable weakness. Once we have that, the Armitage monopoly ends, and you will be free of that 'transaction.'"
Style hung up. She felt no guilt. In the world of St. Jude's, love wasn't a sanctuary; it was a target.
***
Restless, Mild decided to walk to the lodge's small kitchenette for water. As he turned the corner of the hallway, he ran into Arm.
Arm was no longer the polished President. His hair was messy, and he was wearing a simple black t-shirt that showed the tension in his shoulders. He was leaning against the wall, staring at Mild's door.
"You're awake," Arm said, his voice sandpaper-rough.
"I couldn't sleep," Mild replied, clutching his textbook to his chest like a shield.
Arm took a step forward, closing the distance until Mild was backed against the wooden paneling. The air between them hummed with the same electricity from the cave. Arm reached out, his hand hovering near Mild's face, his thumb trembling as if he wanted to trace the line of Mild's jaw.
"Mild," Arm whispered, his eyes dark with the shame and yearning he had tried to outrun. "Tell me you felt it too. In the dark. Tell me I'm not the only one losing my mind."
Mild looked up at him, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw the "most handsome man in school" looking at him with a desperation that shattered every defense Mild had left.
The tension in the dimly lit hallway was thick enough to suffocate. Arm's hand remained suspended in the air, a breath away from Mild's skin, while Mild felt the world tilting on its axis.
Miles away, or perhaps just rooms away, Style sat in the darkness of her private suite, her laptop screen illuminating her face with a ghostly blue glow. She had planted a micro-camera in the recessed lighting of the hallway earlier that evening. Her finger hovered over the 'Record' button, her heart racing.
Give it to me, she thought. Give me the confession that ends the Armitage dynasty.
On Style's screen, the scene was cinematic. Arm was backed into the shadows, his body leaning into Mild's space with a vulnerability that looked entirely genuine. Mild's eyes were wide, glistening with a mixture of fear and a dawning, confused affection.
"Mild," Arm's voice came through the speakers, a low, gravelly vibration. "Tell me you felt it too. In the dark. Tell me I'm not the only one losing my mind."
Style leaned in, her eyes narrowing. She could see Mild's lips part, his chest heaving as he prepared to speak—to confirm the attraction that would become her greatest weapon.
Then, something shifted
Just as Mild's mouth opened to breathe out a response, Arm's eyes did something subtle. They didn't look at Mild. They flickered—just for a micro-second—toward the crown molding above the door.
In an instant, the raw, aching yearning in Arm's expression vanished. It was replaced by a sharp, wicked glint. He didn't pull away; instead, he let out a short, mocking laugh that echoed coldly in the narrow hall.
"The look on your face, Secretariat!" Arm exclaimed, his voice suddenly projecting with the clear, melodic confidence of a stage actor. He stepped back, stuffing his hands into his pockets and smirking. "You actually thought I was being serious? I told Style this retreat was too boring. I bet her you'd fall for the 'tragic hero' routine if the lighting was dramatic enough."
Mild froze. The blood that had rushed to his face drained away, leaving him cold. He looked at Arm, utterly bewildered. The heat, the trembling hand, the racing heartbeat he'd felt through Arm's shirt in the cave—how could that have been a script?
"You... you were joking?" Mild whispered, his voice cracking.
"It's called character study, Mild," Arm said, reaching out to mock-ruffle Mild's hair, though his touch was uncharacteristically stiff. "Don't take it to heart. You're the 'Masterpiece,' remember? I need to know all your angles, even the sentimental ones. Now, go back to your books. You have a scholarship to maintain, and I have a fiancée to entertain."
Arm turned on his heel and walked away, whistling a low, jaunty tune that didn't match the tightness in his jaw.
In her room, Style slammed her laptop shut. Her hands were shaking with fury.
"He knew," she hissed into the empty room.
She replayed the last thirty seconds of the footage. She saw the exact moment Arm's eyes hit the lens. He hadn't just changed his script; he had looked directly into the camera for a fraction of a second, a silent message to her: I see you.
He had intentionally confused Mild and humiliated himself just to ensure she didn't get a single second of usable evidence. He was willing to break the heart of the boy he obsessed over just to keep his power.
Style realized then that her father had underestimated the enemy. Arm wasn't just a distracted heir; he was a shark who knew how to bleed in private while smiling in the light.
Mild stood alone in the hallway, the silence ringing in his ears. He felt a deep, hollow ache in his chest that he couldn't explain. He should have been relieved. He should have been glad that the "scandal" wasn't real.
But as he walked back into his room and looked at his open textbooks, the numbers blurred. He kept thinking about the heat of Arm's body in the tunnel. If that was acting, Mild thought, his heart sinking, then there is nothing real in this entire world.
He sat on his bed, realizing that the "most handsome man in school" was far more dangerous than he'd ever imagined. Arm wasn't just trying to own him—he was making it impossible for Mild to even trust his own feelings.
Mild returned home from the upcountry retreat feeling emotionally pulverized and physically exhausted. The confusion of Arm's "joke" and the persistent anxiety of the scholarship had left him hollow. He walked into his modest apartment to find his mother, Mrs. Cho, waiting for him. She wasn't angry; she looked oddly proud.
She was sitting on the sofa, a single, folded newspaper on the coffee table—an article detailing the Foundation's dinner and Mild's public statement.
"You did the right thing, Mild," she said, her voice soft but firm. She pulled him into a rare, tight hug. "I read what happened at that dinner. That choice... that was the boldest thing you have ever done."
Mild pulled away, unable to meet her gaze. "It wasn't bold, Mom. It was necessary. And it was cruel."
"It was smart," she corrected, her face hardening slightly. "That girl, Georgia. She's sweet, yes, but she is a distraction. The Foundation—they don't forgive. They don't compromise. You had to choose the crown over the chaos. And you chose the future."
She laid a hand on his shoulder, her eyes earnest. "I only want the best for you, son. Everything I have done, every sacrifice, every late night shift—it's all for that piece of paper. The St. Jude's degree. It is your ticket out of this life. It is your purity, Mild, that keeps that ticket valid."
Mrs. Cho then leaned closer, her expression shifting from proud affirmation to cold, serious concern. She noticed the slight tremble in Mild's hands and the way his eyes seemed to constantly dart away, flickering with an emotion she couldn't place. It wasn't just sadness over Georgia; it was something else—a hidden conflict.
"I have heard things, Mild," she whispered, her gaze piercing him. "I hear gossip travels even to the staff break room. Whispers about your work for the President, and... and about that whole shameful Rolex incident."
Mild felt a chill. He had thought the official statement had quieted the matter.
"The Foundation's representatives were asking questions even before the dinner," she continued, her voice dropping. "They heard the rumors. They are watching you. They want to know if you are maintaining a pure character."
She took both his hands, her grip surprisingly strong. "Mild, that scholarship is dependent on your absolute moral integrity. You must not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be pulled into any unwanted or unseemly relationships."
Her eyes bored into his, conveying a message that went beyond mere academic diligence. "You are not to give anyone, especially that powerful young man, any reason to doubt your focus or your morality. Do not let your feelings, whatever they are, cost you everything. If you are caught in any scandal, political or personal, they will drop you, and then all those sacrifices—yours and mine—will have been for nothing."
She released his hands and stood up, her posture returning to its usual weary dignity. "I trust you, son. You've made the hard choice once. Now, make it your life's principle. Focus on your grades. Avoid all distractions."
Mild watched her walk away, the silence in the room heavy with unspoken truths. His mother's love was a double-edged sword—a fierce protection that demanded the total sacrifice of his genuine self. He was trapped between Arm's confusing passion, Style's cold ambition, and his mother's desperate hope. The only path forward was absolute, cold denial of everything he felt.
***
The standoff at the lodge had moved from the hallways to the private study, where the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and unspoken threats. Arm stood by the window, silhouetted against the moonlight, his posture as rigid as a soldier's.
"It was a clumsy attempt, Style," Arm said, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet. He didn't turn around to look at her. "The micro-camera in the molding? I expected more sophistication from someone with your... pedigree."
Style sat in a leather armchair, crossing her legs with unbothered grace. She didn't deny it. "It wasn't about sophistication, Arm. It was about confirmation. I needed to see what the 'Masterpiece' looks like when the museum is closed."
Arm finally turned, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "If you're so insecure about our arrangement that you've succumbed to petty jealousy, let me put your mind at ease. I am straight. I like girls, Style. Our betrothal is a political necessity, yes, but don't mistake my interest in Mild for anything other than what it is—a project. A demonstration of my ability to mold even the most basic clay into something elite."
Style leaned forward, her eyes glittering with a cold, analytical light. "Oh, I believe you, Arm. I believe you've convinced yourself of that lie perfectly. But let's talk about the other side of the equation."
"I understand your 'vision,'" Style continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But I don't think your Secretariat feels the same. I think Mild has feelings for you. Real, inconvenient, messy feelings."
Arm let out a sharp, dismissive bark of laughter. He walked toward the desk, poured himself a glass of water, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"Mild?" Arm asked, his tone dripping with casual arrogance. "Mild is a scholarship student whose only passion is his GPA. He looks at me with fear and obligation because I am the person who holds his future in my hands. To suggest he harbors 'feelings' is to suggest a statue has a heartbeat. It's a laughable fantasy, Style."
"Is it?" Style countered. "In the cave, Arm... his breathing didn't sound like fear. And in the hall tonight, before you noticed the camera and started your little 'play,' the way he looked at you... it wasn't obligation. It was a man looking at his sun."
Arm waved a hand dismissively, his expression returning to its usual mask of boredom. "You're projecting your own melodramatic tendencies onto a boy who barely knows how to tie his own tie without my instruction. Mild is a tool. Tools don't have feelings; they have functions. Now, if you're finished with your psychological thrillers, I have a speech to draft."
As Style walked out, her heels clicking a rhythmic warning on the hardwood, Arm's composure didn't break. Not until the door clicked shut.
Only then did his hand tremble. He set the water glass down, the ice clinking against the rim. He remembered the look on Mild's face in the hallway—the way the boy's eyes had searched his own, looking for a truth that Arm had just violently denied.
Style was right. Mild's eyes had held a dawning, terrifying affection. But what Style didn't know—and what Arm refused to admit even to himself—was that the "play" he had performed for the camera wasn't just to deceive her. It was a desperate attempt to protect Mild from the very dynasties that were now circling them like wolves.
Arm looked at his reflection in the dark window. He had just told Style he was straight. He had told her he only liked girls. He had called Mild a tool.
If I say it enough times, Arm thought, his heart a heavy, aching stone in his chest, maybe the world will believe it. And maybe, eventually, Mild will too.
***
The retreat ended in a heavy, suffocating silence. Back at St. Jude's, the shift in the air was palpable. Mild had become a ghost—efficient, punctual, but entirely unreachable. He moved with a clinical precision, staying exactly three paces behind Arm as required, but the moment Arm slowed down or turned to speak, Mild was already drifting away, his eyes fixed on a distant point on the wall.
For an entire week, Mild mastered the art of the "invisible barrier."
When Arm leaned over Mild's desk to point out a detail in a report, Mild would instantly stand up to "fetch a file."
When Arm tried to use his usual melodic, teasing tone to provoke a reaction, Mild replied in monosyllables: "Yes, Mr. President. No, Mr. President."
Every attempt at a "proprietary" touch—a hand on the shoulder or a lingering gaze—was met with Mild physically stepping back, his body language screaming for distance.
Arm's frustration simmered until it reached a boiling point. He was used to being the hunter, the architect of every interaction. Now, he was being treated like a contagious shadow.
Late Friday evening, the Student Council office was bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun. Mild was packing his books, his movements hurried. He reached for his bag, but a hand slammed down on the desk, blocking his path.
"Enough," Arm growled. His voice wasn't the smooth purr of a leader; it was raw and jagged. "You've been dodging me for six days, Mild. You flinch when I breathe in your direction. What is this? Another one of your 'morality' phases?"
Mild didn't look up. "I'm just maintaining the professional distance required of my position, sir. My mother and the Foundation—"
"I don't care about the Foundation right now!" Arm roared, grabbing Mild by the shoulders and forcing him to face him. "Look at me! I'm talking to you, not the Secretariat."
The contact was the breaking point. The weeks of being watched by Style, the threats from his mother, the confusion of the tunnel, and the cruelty of the "joke" finally crashed over Mild. He didn't pull away this time. Instead, he crumbled.
Tears escaped Mild's eyes before he could stop them, hot and fast. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" he sobbed, his voice cracking into a million pieces. "You dress me up, you play your games, you make me think... and then you tell me it's a joke for a camera. I can't do this anymore, Arm! I can't be your masterpiece and a human being at the same time!"
Arm's grip softened, his expression shifting from anger to a stunned, agonizing realization. He saw the genuine wreckage he had caused.
"I'm so confused," Mild gasped, wiping his eyes with his sleeve but failing to stop the flow. "Everything is wrong. I met Georgia... I went to see her to apologize, to try and find that... that spark again. I wanted to feel the way I used to." He let out a broken, subconscious confession through his tears. "But it wasn't there. I looked at her and I didn't feel the connection. Not like before. It was like I was looking at a stranger. And it's your fault! You've ruined the only normal thing I had!"
Arm stood frozen. The confession that Mild no longer felt the same for Georgia was a victory he had wanted, but hearing it delivered in such a state of despair felt like a hollow triumph.
Mild stepped back, his chest heaving. He looked at Arm with a mixture of terror and a strangeness
"Please," Mild begged, his voice a ragged whisper. "If you have any shred of that 'kindness' Kavin talked about, stay away from me. Don't touch me. Don't tease me. My mother is watching, so is the foundationis watching, so is the foundation .If they see us—if they even think there's something between us—I lose everything. I'll be back on that rainy sidewalk with nothing."
He grabbed his bag, his eyes red and swollen. "Maintain the distance, Arm. For both our sakes. Because if you keep pulling me close, I'm going to drown, and I know you won't be the one to jump in and save me."
Mild bolted out of the office, leaving Arm standing alone in the fading light. For the first time, the President of St. Jude's realized that the most expensive suit in the world couldn't protect him from the silence of an empty room.