The Armitage estate was a monument to silence and cold stone. When Enock stepped into the grand foyer, his arm in a sling and a sharp, practiced smile on his face, the air felt thick with the static of a brewing scandal.
Silas Armitage and his wife were waiting in the drawing room. They looked aged, the "Golden Boy's" recent rebellion having carved new lines into their faces.
"Enock," Silas greeted, his voice a low gravel. "We heard about the accident. We trust the Governor is... manageable regarding the details?"
"The Governor is fine, Uncle," Enock drawled, sinking into a velvet chair. "But I'm not here to talk about my brakes. I'm here to talk about why I'm playing detective with a blank slate. I've looked into the Cho boy. He's a ghost. No digital footprint, no secrets, no nothing. Why aren't we just bringing him into a room and sweating the truth out of him? Why the long game?"
Silas exchanged a look with his wife. "Because everything we do to Mild Cho is traced back to the St. Jude's Foundation," she said, her voice thin. "He is a top-tier scholar. If he disappears or is 'interrogated' in a way that leaves a mark, the board—and the press—will gut us. We need the investigation to be discreet. We cannot alert the perpetrator. If someone gave him that pendant to set us up, they are waiting for us to make a heavy-handed move."
"We trust you, Enock," Silas added, leaning forward. "You have the charm Arm lacks. You can get close without looking like a predator."
Enock let out a short, sharp laugh. "Charm? You might want to tell that to your son. Where is Arm, by the way? I assumed he'd be locked in his room, brooding over his suspension."
The room went deathly still. Silas's grip tightened on his cane. "He is... reflecting on his actions."
"Is he?" Enock's eyes glinted. "Because his car isn't in the garage, and his phone is off the grid. You don't know where he is, do you?"
"He wouldn't dare," his mother whispered, her face turning a sickly shade of pale.
"Oh, he would," Enock said, standing up. "Arm doesn't play by the Foundation script anymore. If I had to guess—and I'm quite good at guessing—he's currently at the new apartment. The one you paid for. He's probably playing house with your 'Masterpiece' right now."
Silas roared, a sound of pure, aristocratic fury. "He was given a Zero-Contact order! If he is there, he is destroying the merger! He is destroying our name!" He turned to his assistant. "Send the security detail. Bring Armitage back. By force if necessary. He is to be confined to this estate until the holiday is over."
"Don't worry, Uncle," Enock said, heading for the door. "I'll head over first. I'd hate for things to get... messy before your guards arrive."
Back at the new apartment, the air was uncharacteristically quiet. Mild sat on the edge of the sofa, watching Arm, who was meticulously checking the window locks.
"You're being paranoid," Mild said, though his heart was still racing from Arm's arrival.
"I'm being realistic," Arm replied, turning to face him. "My family doesn't give gifts, Mild. This apartment is a surveillance hub. I just haven't found the cameras yet."
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door interrupted them. Mild froze, but Arm's hand went instinctively to his pocket.
Mild opened the door. Enock stood there, looking radiant despite the sling. He pushed past Mild with a familiar, easy grace.
"Lovely place," Enock said, his eyes immediately finding Arm. "A bit sterile for a romantic getaway, don't you think, Cousin?"
Arm's face contorted into a mask of pure rage. "You shouldn't be here, Enock. You're supposed to be in a hospital bed."
"And you're supposed to be at the estate, groveling for your inheritance," Enock countered, leaning against the kitchen counter. He looked at Mild with a pitying smile. "Did he tell you, Mild? His father is absolutely livid. There's a security team on the way right now. Arm isn't here to protect you; he's just waiting to be dragged back to his kennel."
"Shut up," Arm hissed, stepping toward him.
"Why? It's the truth," Enock said, his voice dripping with honeyed poison. "You're a liability, Arm. Every second you spend here, you make it more likely that the Foundation will pull Mild's scholarship just to get rid of the 'distraction.' If you actually cared about him, you'd leave. But you can't, can you? You're just as selfish as the rest of us."
Arm lunged, grabbing Enock by the collar, careful of his injured arm but pinning him against the wall. "I'll kill you before I let you take him."
Enock didn't flinch. He laughed right in Arm's face. "Check the hallway, Arm. I think your ride is here."
Through the open door, the heavy sound of synchronized footsteps echoed in the corridor. The Armitage security detail had arrived. Enock winked at Mild over Arm's shoulder, the "Soft Approach" turned into a sharp, winning blade.
Would you like the next chapter to focus on Arm being dragged away while Mild is left alone with Enock, or should the scene escalate into a three-way confrontation before the guards intervene?
The apartment door didn't just open; it was held open with the cold, mechanical authority of the Armitage name.
"Mr. Armitage. Your father is waiting," the lead security officer stated, his voice devoid of emotion.
Arm gripped Enock's collar harder, his knuckles white, his breath hitching in his throat. He looked at Mild, then at the guards, realizing the trap was perfectly sprung. Enock hadn't come to help; he had come to trigger the alarm.
"You did this," Arm hissed at Enock.
"I merely provided the GPS coordinates of your inevitable failure," Enock whispered back, his smile widening as he felt Arm's grip loosen.
The guards didn't wait for a response. They moved with practiced efficiency, peeling Arm away from Enock and dragging him toward the door. Arm didn't fight them—not because he was weak, but because he saw the look of utter exhaustion on Mild's face. He couldn't make this scene any uglier for him.
"I'm not finished, Mild!" Arm shouted as he was hauled into the hallway. "The holiday isn't over! I'll find a way back!"
The door slammed shut, leaving an oppressive silence in the room. Mild stood by the window, his back to Enock. He felt like a prize being passed between two dogs: one who growled and one who wagged its tail while hiding its teeth.
While the sons fought in a rented apartment, the father sat in a room designed to strip men of their pride.
The High Council Conference Room was a vault of mahogany and cold, judgmental light. Silas Armitage sat at the head of a long table, facing a panel of three Elders—the Vetting Committee for the Ministry of the Interior. To his left sat his rivals, including Style's father.
The atmosphere was suffocating. To the public, the betrothal between Style and Arm was a union of two titans. In reality, it was a hostage situation. Style's father had only agreed to the betrothal because his industrial firm was at a temporary financial disadvantage; the Armitage Foundation had used their leverage to force a merger through marriage.
But today, Style's father didn't look like a man at a disadvantage. He looked like a man holding a detonator.
"The Ministry seat requires a candidate to be a vessel of Traditional Virtue," the lead Elder began. "To lead the people, Silas, one must be an open book. Every shadow in your life will be illuminated."
Silas adjusted his cuffs, his face a mask of iron. "I have nothing to hide. My life has been dedicated to the Foundation and the teachings of the Church."
"Is that so?" the Elder countered. "We must investigate the conduct of your household. We require a person with deep religious conviction. There are reports of... instability regarding your heir. Rumors of a 'shady relationship' with a scholarship student."
Silas felt a bead of sweat prickle at his hairline. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Style's father lean back, a faint, predatory glint in his eyes.
Style's father had been working tirelessly with Style to ensure this vetting failed. They didn't want the marriage; they wanted the evidence. If they could catch Arm in a definitive, scandalous compromise with Mild Cho, they wouldn't just break the betrothal—they would blackmail the Armitages for enough capital to regain their independence and take the Ministry seat for themselves.
"Faith is easy to claim, Silas," the second Elder added. "But we will be conducting a deep audit of your family's conduct over the holiday. Any 'shady relationships' or scandal, and you will be disqualified."
As the meeting adjourned, Style's father caught Silas's eye. "A delicate time, Silas," he murmured. "My daughter Style is very observant. She's worried about Arm's... distractions. I hope he behaves himself during the break. It would be such a shame for a man of your 'great religious belief' to lose his aspiration because he couldn't govern his own son."
Silas didn't reply until the man had left. He turned to his assistant, his voice a low growl.
"Tell the guards at the estate: Arm is under total house arrest. If he so much as breathes in the direction of that boy, lock him in the reinforced suite. Style's father is looking for a reason to gut us, and I won't give him one."
Silas knew the stakes. He was being hunted by his own "allies," and his son was the bait.
In the sleek, glass-walled study of the industrialist's manor, Style's father stared at a bank of monitors. Style stood beside him, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed with frustration. On the screens were the blurry, grainy shots Kavin had once tracked—Arm and Mild at the apartment, Arm grabbing Enock in the West Wing—but nothing that proved a "relationship."
"Is this it?" her father barked, gesturing to a photo of Arm merely standing too close to Mild. "This isn't a scandal, Style. This is a misunderstanding. To the public, it looks like a rich boy bullying a scholarship student. To the Elders, it's just 'youthful eccentricity.' We need them in an embrace. We need a confession. We need blood."
Style bit her lip, her pride stinging. "Arm is paranoid, Father. He knows the cameras are there. He's masking his intent with anger. He's protecting the boy by making it look like a rivalry rather than... whatever it actually is."
Her father slammed his fist on the mahogany desk. "If we don't get that evidence before the final vetting, we stay tethered to the Armitages. I will not have my legacy swallowed by Silas's political ambitions."
They had spent weeks and millions on surveillance, yet they had no solid proof. The betrothal remained a steel collar around their necks.
Across town at the Armitage estate, the atmosphere was different—less frantic, but far more suffocating. Silas stood by the fireplace, the warmth doing nothing to melt the ice in his expression. His wife sat on the velvet sofa, her hands folded primly.
"The Elders are circling," Silas said quietly. "Style's father is waiting for a slip-up. If we cannot prove that Arm is a man of 'Traditional Virtue,' the Ministry seat is gone."
"Arm is young," his mother murmured, her voice smooth and calculating. "He is at an age where the forbidden looks like a masterpiece. He doesn't know what he wants because he hasn't been shown what he should want."
Silas turned, his eyes narrowing. "Explain."
"We have been too forceful," she continued. "We treated Mild Cho like an enemy, which only made Arm his protector. We need to help Arm realize himself. Style is beautiful, she is wealthy, and she is his equal. We should use availability."
Silas nodded slowly. "The long holiday. They are under the same roof for tutoring anyway."
"Exactly," she smiled. "We will hire a private tutor—a specialist in Advanced Diplomacy and Theology—to teach them both here at the estate. We will create a vacuum where only he and Style exist. No scholarship boys, no slums, no distractions. If they spend ten hours a day together, Arm will eventually see the 'Traditional Excellence' we have picked for him. We will force him to fall in love by making Style the only world he is allowed to inhabit."
Silas's face softened into a predatory grin. "A tutor. A shared desk. A shared future. It's elegant. It satisfies the Elders' requirement for 'educational focus' and fixes the 'conduct' issue simultaneously."
The next morning, Arm was summoned to the grand library. He expected guards or a lecture; instead, he found Style sitting at a massive oak table, a stack of leather-bound books before her. Standing at the head of the table was a man in a sharp black suit—Dr. Vane, the high-society tutor.
"Since you are under house arrest, Armitage," his father said from the doorway, "your mother and I have decided you shouldn't waste your intellect. Style has graciously agreed to join your holiday studies. You will spend your days here, refining your mind for your future as a Minister's son."
Arm looked at Style. She gave him a practiced, stunning smile—one that would have charmed any other man in the country. To Arm, it felt like a death sentence.
"Shall we begin, Arm?" Style purred, patting the chair next to her. "I hear the section on 'Divine Governance' is quite fascinating."
Arm sat down, his heart heavy. He was trapped in a room of gold and silk, while Mild was alone in a 'cleaner cage' across the city. His parents weren't just locking him away; they were trying to rewrite his soul.
The Armitage library felt less like a sanctuary of knowledge and more like a gilded cage. The air was thick with the scent of antique vellum and the clinical, cold scent of expensive floor wax. Arm sat at the massive oak table, his posture rigid, staring down at a textbook on Theological Jurisprudence. Across from him sat Style, her hair cascading over her shoulder in perfect waves, the very picture of high-society grace.
Arm was unaware of the secret contract simmering beneath Style's composed exterior. His parents had made her a clandestine offer: if she could win Arm's heart before the holiday vetting concluded—if she could make him look at her with eyes full of genuine affection—she would be gifted a brand-new, customized Phantom luxury sports car. To Style, Arm wasn't just a betrothed; he was a milestone on the way to a quarter-million-dollar reward.
"You're drifting again, Armitage," Style said softly, her voice like silk. She reached out, her fingers grazing the back of his hand as she pointed to a passage. "Dr. Vane is waiting for your analysis on the ethics of 'Guided Leadership.' Focus on me for a moment."
Arm pulled his hand away as if her touch were a localized burn. He looked up, but his eyes were hollow, reflecting the dark mahogany of the shelves rather than her beauty. "The only 'Guided Leadership' in this house is the kind that uses handcuffs, Style. I'm not in the mood for a performance."
"It's not a performance," Style countered, leaning in so the faint scent of her perfume—white lilies and ozone—filled his space. She channeled every bit of charm she possessed, her eyes softening into a look of feigned vulnerability. "I know this is hard for you. But we are the only ones who understand the weight of these names. If you'd stop fighting me, you'd realize I'm the only person in your world who can actually stand beside you."
She watched his face, searching for a flicker of warmth, a softening of the jaw—anything that signaled progress toward her new car.
Arm gave her a long, searching look. For a heartbeat, Style thought she had him. Then, he spoke, his voice a low, flat rasp. "You're perfect, Style. You really are. You're exactly the masterpiece my parents want on their wall. But when I look at you, I see the Foundation's brand. I don't see a person; I see a policy."
He turned his gaze back to the book, dismissing her. The silence that followed was deafening. Style's smile remained, but her eyes flashed with a cold, calculated frustration. The Phantom was slipping through her fingers, and it wasn't because she wasn't beautiful—it was because the "scholarship ghost" still occupied the space where Arm's heart used to be.