CHAPTER 4: Porcelain Masks

The shower burned.

Milo sat on the floor of the marble stall, legs curled up, letting the scorching water run over his skin until it turned pink. No amount of heat could cleanse the ache inside him. It only made his bruises bloom deeper.

His fingers trembled as he scrubbed, over and over, like he could erase the marks Win had left. Like he could scrub himself back into something whole. But nothing washed away the shame. It clung to his skin like a second layer, soaked into his bones.

When he tried to stand, his thighs gave out again.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

He just waited for the water to turn cold, then dragged himself out on his knees.

The maid avoided his eyes as she helped him dress.

He couldn't zip up his own trousers—his hands wouldn't stop shaking. She buttoned the shirt carefully, fingers ghosting over the dark bruises that climbed up his sides, her lips pressed into a tight, pitiful line. But she said nothing. She knew better.

They all did.

This house wasn’t a home. It was a stage.

Everyone played their role.

By the time he entered the grand hall, flashbulbs were already popping.

Cameras. Lights. Smiles.

Win stood at the center like a king on his throne, wearing a warm, effortless grin, his arm held out toward Milo like he was some prized possession. The mask was flawless. Handsome. Charming. Every photographer adored him.

“Darling,” Win said, voice sweet with practiced affection, “come stand beside me.”

Milo walked slowly, each step sending dull fire up his legs. He felt the eyes on him—sizing him up, admiring, envying. No one saw the tremble in his knees. No one noticed the stiffness in his gait.

Or maybe they did.

And chose not to care.

Win's arm coiled around his waist as soon as he was close. The grip was gentle on the surface. But underneath, his fingers squeezed, like a snake reminding its prey not to squirm.

“Smile,” he murmured against Milo’s temple.

So he did.

A ghost of a smile. Fragile. Hollow.

They posed like that for nearly an hour—an elegant couple, newlyweds in paradise. Win answered questions, gave charming quotes about their "private ceremony" and how "Milo's shyness made him even more endearing."

Milo said nothing.

Not because he was shy.

Because he couldn’t open his mouth without screaming.

Back inside the mansion, the silence wrapped around them again.

Milo collapsed onto the velvet couch the moment the double doors shut behind them. His entire body throbbed. His jaw ached from clenching it so long. Even his voice felt foreign.

Win poured himself a glass of wine, loosened his tie, and stared out the window like nothing had happened.

“You played your part well,” he said. “Maybe you’re not completely useless after all.”

Milo’s voice came out cracked. “Is this how it’s going to be now?”

Win didn’t look at him. “What do you mean?”

“This... pretend love in front of everyone. And behind closed doors...” His throat burned. “You treat me like garbage.”

Win finally turned, swirling the wine in his glass.

“You’re not garbage, Milo.”

Milo’s breath hitched.

“You’re punishment.” Win took a sip. “And punishment, if done right, must be beautiful.”

Milo’s heart sank.

“You think this is beautiful?”

Win’s eyes darkened. “It’s poetic. You took my light from me. Now I’ll make sure you never feel warm again.”