CHAPTER 10: Cold Silence

The door slammed shut behind Win, leaving Milo alone once again, trembling, bruised, and humiliated.

His chest ached—not just from where Win had shoved him, but from the words that still echoed in his ears.

"Maybe you should’ve."

He sank to the floor slowly, legs giving out under the weight of it all. The silence was deafening, wrapping around him like chains. No warmth. No voice. No comfort. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the sting of betrayal sinking deeper and deeper.

Milo had never felt so invisible.

So discarded.

He sat there for what felt like hours. The mansion outside his door moved on—staff cleaning, curtains drawn, lights dimmed as evening approached.

But Milo stayed frozen, numb.

A knock interrupted the stillness.

He didn’t move.

The door creaked open. Win stepped inside again, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look angry anymore—but that made it worse.

That blank calm.

That collected cruelty.

“Since you refuse to apologize,” Win said evenly, “we’ll try something else.”

Milo glanced up slowly. “What now?”

“Follow me.”

Still shaking, Milo stood—his muscles screaming in protest—and trailed behind Win without another word. Through the grand hallway, past servants who quickly looked away, and up the spiral staircase to the second balcony overlooking the gardens.

It was night now.

Wind howled past them, chilling to the bone.

Win pulled open the balcony doors.

“Out.”

Milo blinked. “What?”

“You’re going to stand here,” Win said flatly, “until you learn some humility.”

Milo’s heart dropped. “It’s freezing.”

“Then maybe it’ll cool your temper.”

“You can’t be serious—”

Win looked at him. That cold, detached stare that used to be warm in his childhood. The same eyes that once shone when Milo brought him handmade gifts or shared ice cream under the tree. That Win was long gone.

“I said out.”

Jaw clenched, Milo stepped onto the stone tiles, teeth already beginning to chatter. He crossed his arms to shield himself, but the silk shirt he wore did nothing to protect him from the chill.

He turned back, hoping this was just a bluff.

But Win pulled the door closed behind him—and locked it.

Milo froze.

Rain started minutes later. Soft at first. Then harder. Cold droplets soaked his clothes, matting his hair to his forehead, trickling down his spine like icy fingers.

He shivered uncontrollably.

Inside, he saw Win through the glass—sitting on the couch, reading something on his phone, completely unaffected.

Like Milo wasn’t even there.

His knees buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright. Pride was the only thing he had left.

Then the thunder rolled in.

The sky cracked open.

Lightning flashed—and with it came a downpour that drowned everything.

His shoes were soaked. His hands trembled. The bruise on his shoulder ached with each gust of wind.

How long had he been standing here?

Thirty minutes?

More?

He pressed his palm against the glass door. “Win…”

Nothing.

“I didn’t touch her,” he whispered. “She grabbed me.”

The wind swallowed his voice.

“I didn’t kill Mimi.”

The rain answered in silence.

Why won’t you believe me?

Tears mixed with the rain until he couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

Inside, the curtains finally moved. Win approached, still in his pristine suit. He looked at Milo—drenched, shaking, skin pale from the cold. For a second, just a second, something flickered across his face.

Regret?

No. Disgust.

He opened the door a crack—not wide enough for Milo to step in, just enough to speak.

“You’ll stand there until you apologize.”

“I told you the truth!”

“I don’t want your truth. I want submission.”

Milo shook his head weakly. “I won’t. Not to her.”

Win’s eyes narrowed. “Then stay there. All night, if you have to.”

He slammed the door again.

Milo closed his eyes.

Maybe I’ll get sick. Maybe I’ll collapse. Maybe then you’ll care.

But even that felt like wishful thinking.