Indriyani stood straight in front of the grand gate. Her tears had already dried, leaving a stinging, salty trail on her gaunt cheeks.
The towering wrought-iron gate, decorated with intricate carvings, felt cold and threatening. It was more than just the gate to Mr. Wahyu Riswanto's estate, the ruler of this tea plantation. More than that, it was the gates of hell she had to pass through.
“Dad…” she whispered, her lips trembling. “Dad, wait for me.”
Her father's pale face, lying in a coma at the hospital, appeared vividly in her mind. Every throbbing pain in Indriyani's upper abdomen reminded her of how critical the situation was.
An emergency craniotomy. An impossible expense. Her only hope was the man behind this gate. A man whose power stretched as far as the eye could see, as vast as this tea plantation.
“Stay strong, Indri,” she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse. “For Dad's sake. Just swallow your pride.”
A guard in a black uniform emerged from the small guardhouse beside the gate. His cold gaze traveled over Indriyani from head to toe.
A country girl in simple clothes, her hair neatly tied back, but with a sharp look in her eyes. Not the shy gaze he usually saw in plantation workers.
“What brings you here?” the guard asked, his voice deep and blunt.
Indriyani swallowed. “I'm Indriyani, sir. I want to see Mr. Wahyu Riswanto.”
The guard raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Indriyani answered honestly. “But this is very important, sir. It concerns my father's life.”
“A lot of people say that,” the guard replied cynically. “Mr. Wahyu isn't that easy to see. He's a busy man.”
Indriyani's blood boiled. But she knew anger wouldn't save her father. “Please, sir. My father was injured in an accident at the plantation. He… he needs surgery immediately. Please tell Mr. Wahyu.”
The guard looked at her again, as though trying to read a lie in her eyes. “Wait here. I'll let him know.”
The iron gate slowly opened, just wide enough for the guard to enter, then closed again with a long creak that felt as though it were locking Indriyani between two worlds: the world of hope and the world of ruin.
Indriyani waited. The minutes felt like hours. Every passing second was precious time her father couldn't afford to lose.
What am I supposed to say when the time comes? she thought. Should I kneel? Should I cry? No. Dad wouldn't want to see me so weak.
Her resolve hardened. She could no longer be the shy girl who was afraid of her own shadow. She was a daughter, a warrior. For her father's sake, she would swallow every insult, every contemptuous stare.
At last, the gate opened again. The guard appeared, this time accompanied by a middle-aged housekeeper with an expressionless face.
“You may come in,” the guard said, his tone slightly softer. “But Mr. Wahyu has a guest. You'll have to wait.”
“Thank you, sir,” Indriyani said, her voice barely audible. She stepped through the gate, feeling the cool air from the well-maintained garden.
The housekeeper said nothing. She simply turned and gestured for Indriyani to follow. Her steps were quick, as if she wanted to finish her task as soon as possible.
Indriyani followed. Her eyes swept over her surroundings. The sprawling garden was filled with carved fountains and exotic flowers she had never seen in her village.
The leafy trees had been arranged to create perfect shade beneath the scorching midday sun. The house itself was a palace, built in grand colonial architecture, with spotless white walls and tall windows draped in heavy curtains. A luxury so dazzling it hurt the eyes.
Is this a house or a museum? Indriyani asked herself. It's so big, so quiet.
They went inside. The cold, gleaming marble floor reflected the light from crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.
A pair of enormous ceramic vases stood proudly in a corner, filled with fresh flowers that had to be expensive. The air-conditioning felt like it pierced her skin, as though freezing every emotion.
The housekeeper led Indriyani to a waiting room. Luxurious leather sofas surrounded a carved table scattered with foreign-language magazines.
Everything felt unfamiliar, too clean, too perfect. Indriyani didn't dare sit on the sofa. Instead, she chose to stand near the window and stare outside, as if searching for something familiar beyond all that grandeur.
My father is in the hospital, fighting for his life. And I'm here, in this palace, begging. Her thoughts spun.
Don't they know this luxury was built on our sweat? On my father's sweat?
She waited. Again. Fifteen minutes. Half an hour. Every minute was torture. Her heart pounded. Fear mingled with anger. She could hear the faint sound of classical music coming from somewhere.
How much longer, Big Boss? she whispered, staring at her reflection in the windowpane. My father doesn't have much time.
The housekeeper finally returned. Her face remained blank, devoid of emotion. “Mr. Wahyu is finished with his guest.”
Indriyani felt a surge of adrenaline. “So… can I go in now?”
“Follow me,” the housekeeper said, turning around.
They walked down a long corridor, passing tightly closed wooden doors with intricate carvings. Every step felt like she was approaching the edge of a cliff.
Indriyani gripped her small bag tightly. Her feet, accustomed to walking across the slippery soil of the plantation, now felt stiff against the marble floor.
At last, the housekeeper stopped in front of a pair of dark mahogany double doors. She knocked twice, softly. A deep voice from inside called, “Come in.”
The housekeeper opened the door and motioned for Indriyani to enter, then closed it behind her. Indriyani was alone now.
Inside the spacious study, the aroma of mahogany mingled with the scent of expensive cigars. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves packed with rows of thick, neatly arranged books.
In the center of the room, an enormous mahogany desk dominated the space. A bronze desk lamp cast a yellowish glow over a stack of documents.
And behind that desk sat Mr. Wahyu Riswanto. A middle-aged man with hair beginning to turn gray at the temples. His expensive suit fit his sturdy frame perfectly.
He didn't look at Indriyani right away. His eyes remained fixed on the documents in front of him as his hands busily flipped through the pages.
The luxury in the room felt cold and suffocating. It stood in stark contrast to the burning hope in Indriyani's chest. Hope for her father. Hope for life.
Indriyani stood silently, waiting for him. Her throat was dry. Her mind ran through every scenario, every word she had prepared.
This is it, she whispered inwardly. This is my last chance. Don't waste it, Indri.
Mr. Wahyu finally raised his head. His sharp eyes fixed on Indriyani, traveling from head to toe.
A stare without a smile. Without warmth. A gaze that measured, judged, and looked down on her. A stare that stripped Indriyani bare, making the pride she had swallowed to enter that room feel lodged in her throat.
“Please,” Mr. Wahyu finally said, his voice flat, as though forcing himself to speak. His hand gestured toward the chair in front of him. “Sit… if that will make you feel more at ease.”
Indriyani hesitated for a moment before pulling out the chair.
Mr. Wahyu raised an eyebrow, as if astonished that someone could move so slowly. “Good Lord… how long do you need just to sit down?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers slowly interlacing with a practiced air that was far too steeped in arrogance.
“Speak!” he snapped. “I don't have all day to listen to pointless mumbling.”
Indriyani opened her mouth, but Mr. Wahyu had already clicked his tongue.
“But before you begin, please make sure what you're about to say actually matters. I don't want to hear the same complaints as all the other people who come here begging for sympathy.”
He looked her over from head to toe, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“And please,” he continued, “if you really want to convince me, don't tremble like that. It's difficult for me to respect someone who can't even keep her eyes steady.”
He leaned back, folded his arms, and sighed as though Indriyani's presence in the room were a burden.
“Well?” he said, his tone lazy. “Go on. Show me what makes you think you're entitled to interrupt my time.”