They arrived home well after dark. Fortunately, they had the foresight to grab dinner on the way.

After exchanging goodnights, Arianna retreated to her room. Once she stepped out of the shower, she slipped into a pair of silk pajamas. The material was exquisite—cool to the touch, soft, and clearly high-end. Driven by a sudden surge of curiosity, Arianna pulled out her phone and searched for the brand.

The lights in her walk-in closet were bright and dazzling. She lay face-down on the chaise, phone held aloft, staring stiffly at the string of numbers on the screen. After counting the zeros, she froze. Her mind went blank, and an eerie silence filled the room.

Only after a long while did she gingerly slide her finger down the page, scrolling further. She recognized the label on the seasonal collection’s best-selling dress. She lifted her head, casting her eyes toward the rows of clothes hanging in her closet, only to realize the entire rack was identical to the collection on her screen.

Had Maxwell King really moved the entire inventory into their home? Dresses, tees, jeans, loungewear, pajamas... the list went on.

She scrolled to the bottom of the brand’s profile: *Lonya, a French luxury house founded in 1865 by the world-renowned designer Samuel Jerry. For over a century, the brand has remained committed to merging high fashion with feminine freedom—cool, sophisticated, and impeccably designed.*

The brand’s signature *Liberté* collection was synonymous with elevated style, the go-to choice for the modern career woman.

Reading that final paragraph, Arianna suddenly understood why Maxwell had chosen this brand. A strange, indescribable warmth swelled in her chest, filling her up entirely.

***

The night deepened, thick and heavy.

It was nearly eleven, and Arianna lay in bed, thoughts drifting aimlessly. She tossed and turned, unable to find sleep. She tried counting sheep, counting dumplings, even solving math problems in her head—nothing worked. Ten minutes later, she surrendered. She shoved her feet into her slippers and headed downstairs to warm up a glass of milk. Milk was supposed to help with sleep, right?

On her way back upstairs, she noticed a sliver of light spilling from beneath the frame of Maxwell’s door. He was still awake? The lights had been off just a moment ago.

She stood at the door, hesitating for a few seconds before giving a soft, tentative knock.

"Come in."

His voice came from within, low, pleasant, and laced with the drowsiness of the late hour. Arianna pressed the handle and pushed the door open.

Maxwell looked up the moment she entered. He hadn’t gone to bed; he was leaning against the headboard, reading a book, dressed in black silk pajamas. His long, slender fingers pressed against the edge of the page, faint veins visible beneath the skin of his forearm as he prepared to turn it.

He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses—he didn’t have a strong prescription, so the lenses were thin. It was the first time Arianna had seen him in them. Stray locks of hair fell over his dark, arched brows, softening the sharp, angular lines of his face and giving him an air of effortless indifference.

The glasses stripped away his usual edge, revealing a scholarly, restrained, and almost ascetic quality—like a high-mountain flower untouchable by the mundane world.

Arianna stood rooted to the spot. She was completely stunned.

It wasn't until Maxwell spoke, his voice brimming with a suppressed smile, that she snapped out of it. "What is it?"

She pulled herself together, though her expression was flushed with embarrassment. She held out the glass of milk. "I went downstairs to warm some up. I brought you one."

"Thank you."

Maxwell looked genuinely touched. He fought hard to keep the corners of his mouth from curling upward as he took the glass with a practiced air of nonchalance. His gaze drifted to her empty hands. "Where's yours?"

"Downstairs," Arianna replied. "I'll go get it in a bit."

Maxwell threw back the covers and slid into his slippers. Under Arianna’s confused gaze, he said gently, "I'll go get it. You wait here."

With that, he stepped out of the room. Arianna stood in the middle of the room, not knowing quite what to do, so she took the chance to look around. The bedroom was decorated in shades of grey, looking rather somber—a stark contrast to her own cozy nook. The room was spotless, clean, and organized. To the right, a private bathroom and closet were tucked away, though they seemed smaller than her own.

Perhaps because he had just showered, the air was scented with balsam fir and oakmoss. Arianna took a breath, then reconsidered. It didn’t smell like body wash; it was more like a bespoke men’s cologne. The top notes were cold, conveying a distinct, impenetrable distance. The heart notes were subtle and sweet, like being caught in a drizzling rainstorm in the countryside while eating a warm, chewy taro mochi—a hint of sweetness cutting through the frost.

Her mood brightened noticeably.

She was still trying to pin down the base notes when Maxwell returned. Seeing her standing there, motionless, he walked toward her, his tone laced with mock confusion. "Did I bury a landmine in here?"

Arianna blinked. "Huh?"

"Then why aren't you sitting?" He gestured with his chin toward the leather sofa against the wall. "Are there nails in the cushions? Can’t you sit?"

Arianna: "..."

She finally caught the sarcasm in his voice. She stammered out an excuse, "I just thought... since the bedroom is such a private space..."

"Mrs. King," Maxwell called her softly, "this entire villa is your home. That includes my room—it’s your territory, too. Everything in this house is yours to use."

"Understood," she murmured, resigned.

Maxwell held his glass of milk, and Arianna instinctively picked up the one he’d left on the table, settling onto the sofa. She didn't notice the look of long-suffering grievance on Maxwell's face as she took a sip. It was silky, rich, and perfectly sweetened, a lingering trace of sugar left on her tongue.

"Mrs. King?"

Arianna turned, looking at him. "What?"

Maxwell’s expression was complex. His eyes locked onto the glass in her hand. "If I recall correctly, wasn't that glass of milk supposed to be for me?"

"Why are you drinking it yourself?"

Arianna froze for a few seconds. She stared at him, her almond-shaped eyes wide with shock, her pupils dark and luminous. A small dab of milk had stained her soft, pink lip.

Maxwell stared at that white droplet, his gaze darkening and turning inscrutable.

Then, as if she realized it was there, she subconsciously licked her lip, her soft tongue sweeping the stray milk into her mouth.

Maxwell: "..."