You're Eyeing My Future Husband

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.