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.