Quiet filled the penthouse, thick enough to feel like a weight behind the eyes—different from the storm's chaos, more still but just as sharp. This hush carried substance, slow and deep, pulling air from the lungs before thought allowed it. Narong moved ahead, face smooth as polished stone, trained in giving nothing away, guiding toward the bedroom with steps meant to erase sound. He exited with care, as though courtesy demanded absence over words. The door closed with a soft snap; metal settled into metal, clean and final, much like the end of a sentence written without flourish.
A silence settled while I stayed still at the center, just standing there. It seemed off to name this space a bedroom—perhaps calling it a personal retreat fit better. This place could've held our old Thonburi flat entirely within its frame. The color on the walls leaned soft, like pale gold, and the fabric surface pulled in light without flash or show. Underfoot, a plush rug in ivory muffled every step, turning movement into something quiet, almost whispered.
Out the window I moved without deciding. A busy mind often finds ways to stay quiet by staying still. Up so high, the city lay itself flat—Bangkok drawn out below, Sukhumvit twisting with lights, vehicles crawling like sparks through nightfall. It stretched beyond sight, uncaring. Ownership here ran to Phakin Rattana. Just like that, I followed along. Heavy and sharp, it landed inside me.
The sound broke the stillness so hard I jumped where I stood.
Open the door," I told them, pushing sound past the tightness in my throat. That stubborn pride? Like worn fabric, threadbare at the edge, yet still held close.
Back came Narong, hands holding a thin silver tablet, a tidy pile of dark cards beside it, his steps quiet, practiced, meant to go unnoticed. The items landed on the glass surface like pieces laid out after a search. "Khun Lalin," he said, voice level, "these replace what you had before—old access shut down, balances cleared. Each card pulls from Khun Phakin's personal reserve. Spend as needed; no boundaries apply."
Nothing was stopping it. That expression felt ridiculous, yet somehow dirty too.
"Your wardrobe is prepared," he added, flatly. "There is a press conference this morning. Please choose an outfit suitable for breakfast. Khun Phakin expects you at seven sharp."
Was it time for the press conference? Grit scraped my voice. So soon?
"The market does not favor uncertainty," Narong said. "Khun Phakin's marriage must be presented as intentional and romantic. Stability reassures investors."
Love sold like a press release. A shrug left my shoulders—what move did that leave me?
"One more thing," he said on his way out, like someone remembering an errand. "The west wing is forbidden. Khun Phakin's private facilities are there."
"I don't plan to go near him," I said softly.
His eyes sharpened. "It is not a suggestion. For your own safety, never enter the west wing."
The latch clicked shut one more time. Over. A thud settled deep beneath my chest bone.
Fingers shook as I perched on the bed's edge, brushing cold silk. The phone sat lifeless in hand—screen dark by choice. A hush pressed close; reaching Dad felt impossible, even to say he'd be okay. Messaging my closest friend didn't happen either, no quick burst like, "What do you think now?" Wrapped in luxury, it pressed close—cold, smooth, and unyielding. Never before did I shrink so much, left behind without a sound.
A shape slipped past the bedroom door, barely touching the floor. Inside the wardrobe, space yawned open—too wide, too knowing—garments lined up like evidence. No rustle, just stillness. Famous names stitched into tags stared down, once untouchable, now draped on smooth arms shaped exactly for mine. As though hands had traced my frame long before I arrived. Simple things—a shirt, a coat—each priced beyond twelve months of payments—stood ready, silent. Not kindness made this happen. Something else did.
Light bounced off the marble walls, soft and steady. In the middle stood a bathtub, alone, waiting. Beside it, bottles lined up—neat, untouched. These were never gifts. Just supplies. Each one was marked down, counted, and ready to be used.
Last night, a mirror showed me standing there—slowly fading. Not gone yet, but close. Eyes wide open, heavy from sleepless nights and shock. Cheekbones familiar. Everything else? Like looking at another person entirely.
Midnight stayed wide awake. Each blink brought back the trace of Phakin's touch - soft but misleading, near yet lingering like a shadow. His stare from that evening played again and again - not just wanting, but weighing something. It slid through thoughts without warning.
Funny how much you resemble him.
Until morning, his words played on repeat.
At a quarter past six, clothes were picked out slowly. That pale gown—some nameless person's choice—sat stiff on me: tight rules in fabric form. Still, I stained my mouth a bold red. A small refusal. Silly? Possibly. Yet fixed. With that, jaw set, the room behind closed doors.
A bright kitchen stretched beyond the dining area. There, by the counter, Phakin held a steaming cup with one hand, his shirt cuffs pushed up while scanning lines on a screen instead of watching the sun climb. Light cut sharp angles over his features; stillness made him seem like something shaped more than lived.
Early today, he remarked, eyes still on his work.
I didn't want to be late," I answered.
That was when he looked my way. Over me his eyes moved, like someone checking a list—cold, exact. They stopped on my mouth. The command came quietly: "Wipe off the color."
White gripped the chair's edge. A single word broke the silence
We are presenting vulnerability, not defiance, he said, coldly.
You bought my time, not my spirit, I shot back.
The room changed. The coffee cup met the table, and then he moved near—close enough to feel but never loud. His words came steady: "Here, your name depends on me."
A piece of cloth appeared in my palm. Right then
Under his quiet gaze, I brushed off the red. When done, a tingle ran across my mouth.
"Better," he murmured.
Quiet filled the room while we chewed. Later, my voice broke through—"What made you choose me?"
His answer was soft and sharp at once. Some things are taken for pleasure. Others for justice.
Before I could pull more from him, he stood. "The car is waiting. Smile. Hold my hand. If you fail, your father pays the price."
Out came his hand toward me. I grabbed it, seeing no path ahead but the one he held out.
The lift dropped with a low sound. Waiting ahead, lenses glared, packed tight—strange, unblinking—as if watched by countless insects sealed in clear walls. When our feet touched that charged space, someone known rose through the people.
Kit.
Footsteps from yesterday stepped right into today. That small grin of his? A spark ready to ignite the whole scene.
Cliffhanger: A bright burst filled the air. His hands clenched harder. The phone rose in Kit's palm, a quiet syllable slipping out—suddenly everything false inside me cracked open, ready to spill into daylight.