You're Eyeing My Future Husband

The air in the VIP suite of the Grand Hyatt was thick with a scent that didn't belong-a cloying, metallic sweetness that clung to the back of Arga's throat. He loosened his tie, his fingers trembling, a sensation he had never felt in his twenty-seven years of life. Arga Putra Wijaya was a man of steel. He had built an empire from nothing, dodging the shadows of his father's legacy to stand on his own two feet. He was the golden boy of the business world, the CEO who never missed a beat.

But tonight, the beat was erratic. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal.

"Damn it," he hissed, his voice coming out as a ragged growl.

The whiskey. It had to be the whiskey. He'd had a single glass with Bram, a man he'd considered a mentor, a partner. But the way Bram had looked at him before leaving-that sly, oily smirk-it all started to make sense now. The room began to spin, the expensive wallpaper blurring into a swirl of gold and deep mahogany. A fire was spreading through his veins, a raw, primal heat that burned away logic and replaced it with a desperate, starving need.

He staggered toward the door, gasping for air. He needed water. He needed to get out. But as he pulled the heavy oak door open, the hallway seemed miles long. His vision doubled. He wasn't in control anymore. His body felt like it was being piloted by a monster, a creature of pure instinct born from the chemical cocktail surging through his blood.

He didn't know which room he stumbled into. The card key in his hand was useless, but the door to Suite 404 was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling onto the carpeted floor. He burst inside, his lungs burning.

"Help..." he tried to call out, but it came out as a low, dangerous purr.

In the dim light of the bedroom, a figure lay on the bed.

Zara Marligh felt like she was drowning in honey. Every time she tried to lift her eyelids, they felt like they were weighted with lead. Her mind was a fog, a thick white mist that blocked out everything except for the faint memory of her sister's face.

Intan.

Her sweet little sister had brought her a glass of warm milk. "To help you sleep, Sis. You're so stressed about the wedding tomorrow."

Zara had smiled, touched by the gesture. She was supposed to marry Dion in less than twelve hours. She was supposed to be the happiest woman in the world. But as she drank, the world had begun to tilt. Her limbs grew heavy, her voice died in her throat, and the last thing she saw was Intan's smile-a smile that slowly twisted into something cold, something she didn't recognize.

Now, Zara lay there, trapped in her own body. She could hear the heavy thud of footsteps. She could hear the sound of someone breathing-harsh, ragged, and too close. She wanted to scream, to run, to fight, but her muscles refused to twitch. She was a doll, a discarded thing at the mercy of the dark.

Then, she felt it. A weight on the bed. A heat so intense it felt like it would blister her skin.

Arga didn't see a woman. He saw a lifeline. He saw the only thing that could quench the fire consuming his soul. His hands, usually so precise and controlled, were frantic as they gripped the silk sheets. He saw the soft curve of a shoulder, the fall of long, dark hair against the pillow.

"Please," a voice whispered in his head, his own voice, buried deep beneath the drug-induced madness. "Stop."

But the monster won. The drug Bram had used wasn't just a stimulant; it was a total erasure of the self. Arga leaned down, his breath hot against the girl's neck. He didn't know her name. He didn't know her story. He didn't know that tonight was supposed to be the eve of her sanctuary.

He only knew the hunger.

Zara felt the rough touch of hands on her skin. Tears leaked from the corners of her closed eyes, soaking into the pillow. *Dion, help me. Please, someone, help me.* But no one came. The hotel room was a tomb of luxury. The man above her was a stranger, a force of nature that broke through her defenses with a terrifying, silent intensity. There was no conversation. No mercy. Only the sound of fabric tearing and the suffocating weight of a man who had lost his humanity.

Pain flared, sharp and sudden, cutting through the fog of the sleeping pills for a split second. Zara's heart let out a silent, shattered cry. In that moment, she knew. Everything she had guarded, every dream she had built for her future with Dion, was being incinerated.

Arga let out a broken groan, his forehead resting against the cool headboard as the world finally exploded into white light. For a moment, the fire receded, leaving behind a cold, hollow shell of a man. He slumped beside the girl, his breathing slowing, the chemical fog beginning to settle into a heavy, dark exhaustion.

He didn't look at her face. He couldn't.

Outside, the city lights of Jakarta flickered, indifferent to the lives being destroyed in Room 404.

Hours passed in a terrifying silence. The sun began to creep over the horizon, painting the room in shades of mocking gold.

Zara was the first to truly wake. The drug was wearing off, leaving behind a dull ache that permeated every inch of her body. She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling. For a second, she forgot. Then, the weight of the man lying next to her, the disheveled state of her clothes, and the blood on the sheets brought it all back with the force of a tidal wave.

She sat up, her breath hitching in her throat. She looked at the man. He was handsome-cruelly so. His jaw was sharp, his hair a mess, his expensive shirt discarded on the floor. He looked like a god, but to her, he was the devil.

She scrambled off the bed, her legs shaking so hard she nearly fell. She found her dress, her fingers fumbling as she tried to pull it on. Her mind was screaming. *Get out. Get out. Get out.*

She didn't notice the phone on the bedside table. She didn't notice the camera lens peeking through the vent. She only saw the door.

She ran. She ran through the hallway, her heart hammering, her soul feeling like it had been scraped raw. She reached the lobby, her hair wild, her eyes red. People stared, but she didn't care. She hailed a taxi, her voice cracking as she gave her address.

When she reached her house-the house she shared with her parents and Intan-the decorations for the wedding were already up. Yellow jasmine hung from the gates. A "Just Married" sign was leaning against the porch.

The irony was a physical blow to her stomach.

She burst through the front door, needing her mother, needing to hide. But the living room wasn't empty.

Her father, Rudi, was there. Her mother, Ella, was crying. And Dion... Dion was standing by the window, his face a mask of pure disgust.

"Zara," her mother gasped.

Zara took a step forward, her hand reaching out. "Mom... something happened... I was..."

"We know what happened," Dion's voice cut through the air like a blade. He held up a phone. On the screen was a photo. A photo of her in that hotel room, draped in the arms of a man. A photo that made it look like a tryst, a choice. A betrayal.

"It's not what it looks like," Zara sobbed, the walls closing in. "I was drugged. Intan gave me..."

She looked around for her sister. Intan was standing behind their mother, her face a picture of fabricated horror, her eyes wide with fake tears.

"Sis, how could you say that?" Intan wailed. "I just gave you milk because you were nervous! Why are you blaming me for your... your affair?"

Zara felt the floor drop away. She looked at her father, looking for a shred of belief. But Rudi Wijaya-a man who valued reputation above all else-only looked at her with shame.

"You've disgraced this family," he said, his voice cold. "On the eve of your wedding. With Arga Wijaya, of all people?"

Zara's head spun. Arga Wijaya? The man from the room... was the son of her father's rival?

Dion walked over to her, his eyes cold and dead. He took the engagement ring from his pocket-the ring she had cherished-and threw it at her feet. It bounced off the marble floor with a hollow *clink*.

"The wedding is off," Dion said. "I don't marry used goods."

The words hit her harder than anything that had happened in that room. Used goods.

Zara sank to her knees, the yellow jasmine of her wedding decorations mocking her from outside the window. She had been robbed, betrayed, and now, she was being discarded by the people who were supposed to love her.

In that moment, Zara Marligh died. And in her place, something cold and sharp began to grow.

Back at the hotel, Arga woke up to an empty bed. The fog had cleared, leaving behind a crushing weight of realization. He remembered the door. He remembered the girl. He remembered the drug.

He sat up, burying his face in his hands. He was a Wijaya. He was supposed to be untouchable. But he had just committed an act that no amount of money could fix.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from Bram.

Hope you enjoyed the gift, Arga. The world is watching.

Arga looked at the blood on the white sheets. His jaw tightened until it ached. He didn't know who she was yet, but he knew one thing.

The game had just begun, and the price was going to be paid in soul-crushing installments. He would find her. Not because he loved her, but because in the world of the Wijayas, you never let a debt go unpaid-and you never let a girl like that simply walk away with your dignity.

He stood up, his eyes turning to ice. He was Arga Putra Wijaya. And if he had to burn the whole world down to find out who set him up, he would start with the girl who had been in his bed.

Little did he know, she was already burning.

The morning light in Jakarta didn't feel like a new beginning; it felt like a spotlight on a crime scene. Arga stood in the center of the suite, his expensive silk shirt hanging open, looking at the hollow imprint on the bed where the girl had been just an hour ago. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning that now felt like ice against his skin. His head throbbed, a rhythmic pounding that reminded him of every mistake made in the dark.

He wasn't a man who panicked. Arga Putra Wijaya was the guy who stayed calm when stocks plummeted or when a factory burned down. But this? This was a different kind of fire. This was personal. This was a stain that wouldn't come out with a press release.

"Damn it, Bram," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He grabbed his phone, his thumb hovering over the call button for his head of security, but then he paused. If he called the team now, there would be a paper trail. Logs. Witnesses. In his world, information was the only currency that mattered, and right now, he was bankrupt.

He walked over to the nightstand and saw it-a small, silver earring shaped like a teardrop. It was stuck between the mattress and the frame. He picked it up, the cold metal biting into his palm. It was delicate, cheap compared to the jewelry the women in his circle wore, but it felt heavy with the weight of what he had done. He didn't even know her face. The drug had turned his world into a blur of heat and desperation. All he remembered was the way she felt-fragile, like glass ready to shatter under his touch.

His phone buzzed again. Another message, but not from Bram. It was a link to a private gossip forum frequented by the elite. His heart skipped a beat as he opened it. There it was. A grainy photo of him entering the room, and another of a girl-her face blurred but her dress unmistakable-stumbling out of the lobby. The caption read: *The Golden Boy's Secret Suite: Who is the mystery girl in Room 404?*

"They're fast," he whispered. He felt a surge of nausea. This wasn't just a prank. This was a calculated execution of his reputation.

He moved quickly now, dressing with a robotic precision. He had to find her before the press did. Not because he wanted to apologize-the word felt foreign in his mouth-but because he needed to shut her up. He needed to buy her silence, her life, whatever it took to keep the Wijaya name from dragging in the mud. He left the hotel through the service exit, his cap pulled low, blending into the morning rush of hotel staff and delivery drivers.

Meanwhile, across the city, Zara felt like she was walking through a dream that had turned into a nightmare. The taxi ride home was a blur of neon lights and the smell of stale tobacco. When she finally stepped out in front of her family's house, the sight of the white marquee and the flowers made her want to scream. It was supposed to be her day. She was supposed to be putting on a white veil, not hiding bruises under a torn dress.

She pushed open the front door, hoping to slip upstairs, but the house was an ambush.

"Where have you been?"

Her father's voice was like a whip. Rudi Marligh stood in the foyer, his face purple with rage. Behind him, her mother was clutching a handkerchief, sobbing softly. And Intan-Intan was there, tucked into a corner, looking like a kicked puppy.

"Dad, I... I was hurt. Someone took me," Zara started, her voice cracking. She looked at Intan, waiting for her sister to speak up, to admit to the "milk" she had served.

But Intan didn't speak. She let out a small, theatrical whimper. "Oh, Zara... how could you? Dion is upstairs. He's seen the pictures. Everyone has seen them."

"Pictures? What pictures?" Zara felt the world tilt.

Her father threw a tablet onto the coffee table. The screen showed the forum post. The grainy photo of her, looking disheveled and broken, leaving the hotel. To anyone else, it looked like a walk of shame. It looked like she had spent the night in a drug-fueled tryst with a billionaire.

"I didn't choose this!" Zara screamed, her voice echoing through the house. "Intan, tell them! You gave me that drink! You told me it would help me sleep!"

Intan looked up, her eyes wide and watery. "Me? Zara, I was in bed by ten. I even checked on you, but your room was empty. I thought you went to see Dion for one last talk before the wedding. I tried to cover for you, but when these photos came out..." She trailed off, sobbing into her hands.

"You liar!" Zara lunged toward her sister, but her father grabbed her arm, his grip bruising.

"Enough!" Rudi bellowed. "You stay out all night with Arga Wijaya-the man who is trying to bankrupt our family's textile business-and then you try to blame your innocent sister? Have you no shame?"

"Arga Wijaya?" Zara whispered the name. It tasted like poison. She didn't care about his money or his empire. She only cared that he was the man who had stolen her future.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made everyone freeze. Dion walked down, his suitcase in hand. He didn't look at Zara. He looked at the floor, his jaw set in a hard line. He was the man she had loved since high school. The man who promised to protect her.

"Dion, please," Zara begged, breaking away from her father. "Look at me. Look at my eyes. I was drugged. I don't even remember how I got there."

Dion finally looked up, but there was no love in his eyes. Only a cold, shimmering disgust. "I saw the photo, Zara. You didn't look like you were struggling. You looked... occupied."

The slap she wanted to give him died in her soul. The betrayal was complete. Her sister had sold her, her father had judged her, and the man she loved had branded her.

"Get out," her father said, his voice terrifyingly calm.

"What?" Zara blinked.

"You are no longer a Marligh. I will not have a whore under my roof. You've ruined the merger, you've ruined our name, and you've ruined your sister's reputation by association. Go to your billionaire. See if he wants you now that the world knows what you are."

He didn't give her time to pack. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her toward the door. Zara stumbled onto the porch, the very porch that was decorated with symbols of her supposed happiness. The neighbors were watching. She could see the curtains twitching in the house next door.

"Dad, please! I have nowhere to go!"

The door slammed shut. The lock turned.

Zara stood there in the humid Jakarta heat, wearing a ruined dress and carrying a heart that had been ripped into a thousand pieces. She looked down at the gravel driveway. The engagement ring lay there, sparkling in the sun like a cruel joke. She didn't pick it up.

She began to walk. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew she couldn't stay. Every step hurt. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass. She hated Intan. She hated Dion. But most of all, she hated Arga Putra Wijaya.

She reached a small park a few blocks away and collapsed onto a bench. She put her head in her hands and finally let the tears come. They weren't soft tears; they were jagged, ugly sobs that tore through her chest.

"Rough morning?"

She looked up, startled. A man was standing there, leaning against a tree. He was wearing a dark hoodie and sunglasses, but she recognized the silhouette. The broad shoulders. The way he carried himself like he owned the air around him.

It was him.

Arga had followed the address he'd squeezed out of a hotel clerk. He had arrived just in time to see the drama on the porch. He had watched her get thrown out like trash. A part of him felt a twinge of something-maybe guilt, maybe just annoyance-but he pushed it down. He had a mission.

Zara stood up, her eyes flashing with a sudden, violent heat. "You," she spat.

Arga took a step forward, pulling off his sunglasses. His eyes were tired, but they were still the eyes of a predator. "We need to talk."

"Talk? You want to talk?" Zara laughed, a shrill, broken sound. "You raped me. You destroyed my life. My family just disowned me because of you! What is there to talk about, Mr. CEO?"

Arga flinched at the word 'rape'. "I was drugged," he said, his voice tight. "Just like you. I didn't know who you were. I didn't know where I was."

"And that makes it okay?" Zara stepped closer, her finger poking his chest. "Does your 'I was drugged' excuse get me my wedding back? Does it get me my home back? You're Arga Wijaya. You'll go back to your office and make another billion. I have nothing!"

Arga grabbed her hand, his grip firm but not painful. "That's exactly why we're talking. You have nothing. I have everything. And right now, the press is about to turn both of our lives into a circus. I'm not going to let that happen."

"What are you going to do? Kill me?"

Arga looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. She was beautiful, even with the smeared makeup and the raw, red eyes. There was a fire in her that most women in his world lacked. "No," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm going to marry you."

Zara froze. The world seemed to stop spinning. "What?"

"It's the only way," Arga said, his mind already spinning through the possibilities. "If we're married, the night at the hotel isn't a scandal. It's a 'passionate secret affair'. The investors stay happy, your family looks like fools for throwing you out, and I get to keep my company."

"You're insane," Zara said, shaking her head. "I hate you. I want to see you in prison, not at an altar."

"Go ahead," Arga challenged, spreading his arms. "Call the police. Tell them your story. See who they believe-the CEO with a clean record or the girl whose own family called her a liar. You'll spend years in court, and you'll end up with nothing but more shame. Or, you come with me. You get a house, a name, and the power to make everyone who hurt you today crawl back on their knees."

Zara looked at him. She looked at the man who had taken her innocence, now offering her a golden cage. She thought about Intan's smirk. She thought about Dion's disgust. She thought about her father's cold eyes.

She didn't love Arga. She might never even like him. But he was offering her a weapon.

"If I do this," Zara said, her voice trembling but steady. "I'm not your wife. Not really. I'm your nightmare."

Arga felt a ghost of a smile touch his lips. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a man who had just signed a contract with the devil. "Deal."

He led her to a black SUV parked around the corner. As the door closed, shielding them from the world, Zara looked out the window one last time at the direction of her old life. She wasn't the girl who loved jasmine and white veils anymore. That girl was dead.

The woman sitting in the back of Arga Wijaya's car was someone else entirely. Someone who was going to make sure that if she had to live in hell, she was going to be the one holding the pitchfork.

Arga watched her from the corner of his eye. He knew he had just invited a storm into his house. But as the car sped away, he realized he didn't care. He had always been better at surviving storms than enjoying the sun.

The engine roared, drowning out the sound of Zara's silent, final sob. The city of Jakarta blurred past, a concrete jungle where two broken people were about to start a war under the guise of a wedding.

"One condition," Zara said suddenly, her voice cold.

Arga didn't turn his head. "What?"

"Your sister. Your family. Anyone who had a hand in this night... they pay. You help me destroy them."

Arga shifted in his seat. He thought about his own father, Rudi Wijaya, who probably had a hand in Bram's plan just to "test" him. He thought about the sharks in his boardroom.

"Consider it done," Arga replied.

The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the promise of a revenge that would leave no one standing. They weren't a couple. They were two survivors of a shipwreck, clinging to the same piece of debris, waiting for the tide to turn.

And the tide was coming. It was coming for Intan, for Dion, for Bram, and for anyone else who thought they could play with Arga Putra Wijaya's life and get away with it. But as Arga looked at the teardrop earring still clutched in his hand, he wondered if he was the one being played.

He had the money. He had the power. But as the car pulled into the driveway of his secluded mansion, he realized he was no longer the one in control. The girl next to him, with her ruined dress and her shattered soul, was the one who held the matches now.

And he was just the house waiting to be burned.

The iron gates of Arga's private estate groaned as they swung open, a sound that felt like a prison sentence echoing in the quiet morning air. Zara stared out the tinted window, her fingers digging into the expensive leather upholstery. This wasn't a home. It was a fortress of glass and cold stone, perched on a hill like it was looking down on the rest of Jakarta. It was exactly the kind of place a man like Arga Putra Wijaya would live-somewhere high enough to ignore the screams of the people he crushed on his way up.

"Get out," Arga said. His voice wasn't harsh, but it lacked even a shred of warmth. He didn't offer her a hand. He didn't even look at her as he stepped out of the SUV, adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just bought a human being to save his stock prices.

Zara stumbled out, her legs still feeling like jelly. The humid air hit her, but she felt a chill that went straight to her bones. She looked down at her dress-the silk was stained, the hem torn from her frantic run through the park. She looked like a ghost haunting a palace.

"I can't stay here," she whispered, the reality of the situation finally clawing at her throat. "I have nothing. No clothes, no phone... they took everything, Arga."

Arga stopped at the top of the marble stairs and turned around. The sun caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look more like a statue than a man. "You have me," he said, and for a second, the words sounded like a promise. Then he added, "And as long as you belong to me, you'll have everything you need to play the part. My housekeeper, Bi Inah, will take you to your room. Don't leave it until I tell you to."

"Belong to you?" Zara's voice rose, a sharp, jagged edge of anger cutting through her exhaustion. "I am not a piece of furniture you bought at an auction, Arga! I am here because you and my sister turned my life into a graveyard!"

Arga took a slow step down toward her, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. "Listen to me carefully, Zara. Right now, outside those gates, you are a scandal. You are the girl who cheated on her fiancé with the rival CEO. Inside these gates, you are the future Mrs. Wijaya. You want to fight me? Fine. But do it while wearing something that doesn't smell like a cheap hotel and regret. Bi Inah!"

An elderly woman appeared at the door, her face a mask of practiced neutrality. She bowed slightly, her eyes flickering toward Zara with a mix of pity and curiosity.

"Take her upstairs. Burn that dress. Get her whatever she needs," Arga commanded before walking past them both into the house, his mind already back on the phone calls he had to make to the board of directors.

Zara followed the housekeeper through the cavernous hallway. Everything was too clean. Too white. The floors were polished to such a high shine that she could see her own broken reflection staring back at her. She felt like an infection in a sterile room.

The bedroom they gave her was larger than her entire apartment back home. It had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a sprawling garden, but all Zara could see were the bars of the fence in the distance.

"Miss... I will prepare a bath," Bi Inah said softly.

Zara didn't answer. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She thought about Dion. Was he at the church right now? Was he telling the guests that his bride was a whore? She thought about Intan, probably sitting in their living room, sipping tea and acting like the grieving sister while she counted the days until she could take Zara's place in the spotlight.

The anger was the only thing keeping her upright. It was a hot, pulsing thing in her chest, replacing the heart that Dion had stepped on.

She stripped off the ruined dress, letting it fall to the floor like a dead skin. In the bathroom mirror, she saw the marks on her skin-faint bruises on her arms where Arga had held her, and the invisible ones that hurt much more. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the scent of that hotel room, the scent of a man who was now her only lifeline.

When she came out, wrapped in a thick robe, a new dress was waiting on the bed. It was deep emerald green, modest but obscenely expensive. Beside it was a new phone and a stack of legal documents.

A knock at the door made her jump. Arga walked in without waiting for an answer. He had changed into a fresh suit, looking like the king of the world once again.

"Sign these," he said, tossing a pen onto the bed.

Zara picked up the papers. *Prenuptial Agreement. Non-Disclosure Agreement. Marriage Contract.*

"You've been busy," she snapped, scanning the lines. "Clause 4: The marriage shall be maintained for a minimum of two years. Clause 7: No public displays of affection unless requested for media purposes. Clause 12: Any breach of silence regarding the night of the 14th will result in total forfeiture of assets."

"It's standard," Arga said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Standard for a business merger, maybe. Not for a life." Zara looked up at him, her eyes burning. "You're so afraid of the truth, aren't you? You're a billionaire, a genius, a 'self-made man,' but you're terrified that people will find out you're just a man who couldn't control himself."

Arga was across the room in three strides. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes weren't cold anymore; they were dark with a simmering fury. "I told you, I was drugged. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to tie my name to a girl from a failing textile family? I had plans, Zara. This marriage is a cage for me just as much as it is for you."

"Then let me go," she whispered. "Let's tell the truth together. We can take down Bram. We can take down my sister."

Arga let go of her, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. "You're naive. The truth doesn't sell. A scandal sells. A romance sells. If we tell the truth, my company's value drops forty percent by noon. My father will use it as an excuse to kick me out and put his puppet in my seat. I didn't build this empire to let it burn because of a drop of poison in a whiskey glass."

He pointed at the papers. "Sign them, Zara. Or walk out that gate right now with nothing but that robe. Make your choice."

Zara looked at the pen. She thought about her father's face when he slammed the door. She thought about the way Dion had looked at her like she was something he'd stepped on in the street.

She grabbed the pen and signed her name in jagged, angry strokes. *Zara Marligh Wijaya.*

"There," she spat, throwing the pen at his feet. "You own me. I hope you're ready for what that means."

Arga picked up the pen and tucked it into his pocket. "The wedding is in three days. It will be small, private, but loud enough for the press to hear. Until then, stay in the house. My lawyer will handle the 'reconciliation' story with your family."

"My family?" Zara felt a surge of nausea. "They don't want a reconciliation. They want me gone."

"They want money, Zara. And I have more of it than they can imagine. Your father will be singing your praises by tomorrow morning once he sees the check I sent to 'save' his factory."

Zara felt a fresh wave of disgust. Her father had sold her for a textile factory. Her sister had sold her for a thrill. And Arga had bought her for a reputation.

"You're all the same," she said, her voice hollow. "You all have a price."

Arga walked toward the door, but he paused at the threshold. "Welcome to the real world, Zara. It's a lot easier to survive when you know what everyone costs."

As the door clicked shut, Zara sank onto the bed. She looked at the emerald dress. It was beautiful, but it felt like a shroud. She picked up the new phone. Her finger hovered over the contact list. It was empty, except for one number: *Arga.*

She opened the browser and searched for her own name. The headlines were already shifting.

*Mystery Girl Identified: Zara Marligh, Fiancee of CEO Arga Wijaya?*

*The Secret Love Story: Why the Wedding of the Year was Almost Canceled.*

The lies were spreading like a virus, rewritten by Arga's PR team to turn a tragedy into a fairy tale. She scrolled down and saw a photo of Intan, posted an hour ago. It was a selfie of her sister smiling, captioned: *So happy for my big sis! Love always wins! #WeddingBells #FamilyFirst.*

Zara threw the phone against the wall. It didn't break, but the sound echoed in the empty room.

"I'm going to kill you, Intan," she whispered to the shadows. "I'm going to take everything you love and turn it to ash."

The next two days were a blur of tailors, lawyers, and silence. Arga was rarely home, and when he was, he ignored her. He was a ghost in his own house, a man obsessed with the numbers on a screen and the voices on his conference calls.

But on the third night, the night before the "wedding," he came to her room. He didn't knock this time. He looked disheveled, his tie hanging loose, a bottle of expensive scotch in his hand.

"Drink?" he offered, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Zara was sitting by the window, staring at the moon. "I don't drink anymore. Not after the last time someone gave me a glass."

Arga winced, a flicker of genuine emotion crossing his face before he masked it with a swig from the bottle. "Fair enough."

"Why are you here, Arga? Come to check on your investment?"

"The press will be at the registry tomorrow. We need to look like we're in love. Or at least, like we don't want to strangle each other." He looked at her, his gaze intense. "Can you do that? Can you pretend for an hour?"

"I've been pretending my whole life," Zara said, turning to face him. "I pretended my sister loved me. I pretended my father was a good man. I pretended Dion was my soulmate. Pretending you're not a monster will be easy compared to that."

Arga stood up, walking toward her. The room felt smaller as he approached. The scent of woodsmoke and expensive cologne filled her senses, a scent that was starting to become dangerously familiar.

"You think I'm a monster," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Maybe I am. But in this city, monsters are the only ones who don't get eaten."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. For a second, Zara thought he was going to touch her, and her heart skipped a beat-not out of fear, but out of something she couldn't name. Something dark and magnetic.

But he just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were cold.

"Tomorrow, the world will see you as a queen, Zara. Wear the crown. Even if it cuts your head open."

He turned to leave, but Zara called out to him. "Arga?"

He stopped.

"Why me? You could have picked anyone. You could have paid off a hundred girls to play this part. Why the one girl who has every reason to ruin you?"

Arga looked back at her, his eyes unreadable in the moonlight. "Because," he said softly, "you're the only one who looks at me and sees exactly what I am. And I'm tired of being the only one who knows."

He left before she could respond.

Zara stayed by the window long after the lights in the house went out. She thought about his words. He was tired. The billionaire, the lion of the business world, was exhausted by his own mask.

But she couldn't let herself feel sorry for him. Sympathy was a luxury she couldn't afford. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle and swear a lie to a man she hated. She would enter a den of lions, and she would have to learn how to bite back.

She looked at her reflection in the dark glass. Her eyes were hard now. The girl who cried in the park was gone.

"Let the game begin, Arga," she whispered.

The morning of the wedding was gray and drizzling, a fitting sky for a union born in a hotel room and sealed in blood. Bi Inah brought in the dress-a simple, elegant white column that cost more than a year of Zara's old salary.

As Zara put it on, she felt like she was putting on armor. She didn't wear a veil. She wanted to see everything. She wanted everyone to see her eyes.

The ceremony was at a small, private chapel on the outskirts of the city. There were no friends. No family-except for Arga's parents and Zara's family, who had been "invited" as a show of unity.

When Zara walked into the foyer of the chapel, she saw them.

Her father was wearing a tuxedo, looking proud and smug. Her mother was dabbing her eyes, acting the part of the emotional mother of the bride. And Intan... Intan was wearing a bright pink dress, standing next to her parents with a wide, fake smile.

But beside Intan stood Dion.

Zara's breath hitched. Why was he here?

Dion looked at her, and for a second, she saw a flash of regret in his eyes. Or maybe it was just greed. Now that she was marrying a Wijaya, she was no longer "used goods"-she was a connection.

Arga appeared beside her, his hand sliding firmly around her waist. He felt the tension in her body.

"Smile, Zara," he whispered in her ear. "The cameras are watching."

They walked into the chapel together. The flashes of the paparazzi outside were like lightning. Zara kept her head high.

As they stood before the registrar, Zara felt a strange sense of detachment. She heard the words, but they didn't mean anything. *To have and to hold. In sickness and in health.*

"I do," Arga said, his voice steady and clear.

The registrar looked at Zara. "And do you, Zara Marligh, take this man..."

Zara looked at her family in the front row. She saw Intan's eyes, narrow and jealous. She saw her father nodding, thinking about his factory.

"I do," she said.

The words felt like a curse.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Arga turned to her. He didn't hesitate. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a claim. It was a message to the world: *She is mine.*

Zara didn't pull away. She leaned into him, her hands clutching his lapels. If she was going to be a villain in this story, she was going to be the best one they'd ever seen.

As they walked out of the chapel as Mr. and Mrs. Wijaya, the crowd of reporters surged forward.

"Mr. Wijaya! Is it true you've been dating in secret for a year?"

"Mrs. Wijaya, how does it feel to be part of the most powerful family in the country?"

Arga didn't stop. He shielded her with his body, ushering her into the waiting car.

But before the door closed, Zara caught Intan's eye. She didn't smile. She just looked at her sister with a cold, dead stare that said: *Your turn is coming.*

Inside the car, the silence returned. Arga loosened his tie and leaned back, closing his eyes.

"That's over," he said. "Now the real work begins."

"Work?" Zara asked, wiping the lipstick from her mouth.

"The gala is tonight. All my rivals will be there. Bram will be there. We need to show them that we're untouchable. If anyone asks about the hotel, you tell them we were celebrating our engagement early. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Zara said. "But I have my own work to do tonight."

Arga opened one eye. "And what's that?"

"I want to talk to Bram. Alone."

"No," Arga said instantly. "He's dangerous. He's the one who set us up, Zara. He wants to see you fall."

"Then let him see me," Zara said, her voice dropping to a dangerous level. "Let him see exactly what he created. You wanted a wife who could play the part, Arga. Let me play it."

Arga looked at her for a long moment. He saw the cold fire in her eyes, the same fire he had seen in the mirror every morning for the last five years. He realized then that he hadn't just bought a victim. He had bought an ally who might be more ruthless than he was.

"Fine," he said. "But if you slip up, I won't save you."

"I don't need you to save me," Zara said, looking out at the rainy streets of Jakarta. "I need you to get out of my way."

The car sped toward the mansion, the new Mr. and Mrs. Wijaya sitting side by side, miles apart in spirit but bound by a darkness that was only just beginning to unfold.

Tonight was the gala. Tonight, the world would see the new Zara. And tonight, the first head would roll.

Zara touched the teardrop earring in her pocket-the one Arga had found in the hotel. She had asked Bi Inah to find the matching one. She was wearing them both now. A reminder of the night she died.

"Get ready, Arga," she whispered to herself. "The monster is out of its cage."